Running Free
by Daughter Of The Revolution
Summary: Alfred F. Jones, a double amputee Civil War veteran, felt as if he had lost his freedom despite his side winning the war. But, a visiting Russian poet awakes in him his untamed spirit again and gives him a reason to stand up and run free. RusAme
1. The Poet Sees His Muse

**DOTR** **: Yep! Another oneshot churned out too long. Sorry for these sudden onslaught of new stories (especially when I'm trying to finish requests, sorries), but when one listens to classical music and love songs and finds herself watching American history on YouTube then this will happen to an authoress.**

 **Main ambient song for this story is: You're Still You by Josh Groban.**

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'When I had been lacking in inspiration they told me to go to the United States of America to find muse, sorrow, thirst, hunger, contempt, beauty, peace; everything that life was. They told me that the nation would have it.

The country did, and I found him.'

—Ivan Braginsky

Northern New York, USA. August of 1865

It was dark and rainy the day Ivan came to the home where he would be spending his time in the United States. The storm took away any care of detail of the home for the Russian. He wanted to be inside and out of the rain where it was warm and dry.

"Oh, the hour, Mr. Braginsky," the owner of the room and board home, Mrs. Thatcher, had a lantern in hand and was dressed in only her bed gown. She looked tired but more than ready to assist the newcomer with his belongings.

"Forgive me, but the ship was delayed a few days and didn't get into port until late noon. And I wouldn't want to see your eyes roll at the issue with the carriage," Ivan said with a chuckle while following the old woman up a few flights of stairs. The third floor was going to be his wing and the room with the best view of the scenery was what he requested.

"No, I wouldn't," the American woman admitted after unlocking the room and then handing the key to the foreigner. "But get a good night's sleep, Mr. Braginsky, only God knows what a sleep-deprived poet would write in his journal." Ivan offered her a smile. "Well, breakfast's at seven, brunch will be served on the patio at ten or if the weather permits then in the garden. Lunch is at two and dinner at eight."

"Spasibo. I will not forget the times," Ivan assured with an incline of his head.

The old woman rose her brow curiously. "What does that mean?"

Ivan smiled to himself and inwardly reprimanded himself for using is native language in a land that wasn't bi-lingual. "Apologies, it just means thank-you in Russian." The woman nodded before leaving Ivan to rest for the night.

The journey across the sea to the New World nation was exhausting and Ivan ended up sleeping in longer than he had planned. He raced down the stairs while trying to fix his coat. If he didn't hurry he'd miss the set time for breakfast.

And he did. Ivan Braginsky was horribly late. The maids were already clearing up the dishware atop the rows of tables. How sad.

"Late on the first day, Mr. Braginsky?" Ivan turned to see the Mrs. Thatcher. She was smiling at him, the gleam in her eyes more lively now that she had properly rested.

Ivan smiled bashfully. "Da—I mean, yes. Apologies."

The American woman was a nice old lady. She let out a sigh and turned, soon motioning Ivan to follow. "I'll dismiss you from the consequence of your late arrival for one day. Come on, I'll fix you something."

Mrs. Thatcher fixed Ivan some breakfast herself and made way a place for him to eat at the small table near the lounge area. She said it was best to eat in the new sunlight and Ivan enjoyed the illumination. He had to admit that American food was awfully fine, or perhaps simply Mrs. Thatcher's cooking divine. Braginsky hadn't had a nice meal since he left his motherland and to have his belly full and warm without it churning over in need to expel the digested contents was a pleasantry.

Ivan had been given a newspaper to read about the happenings in the country. He enjoyed the read while sipping craftily churned black coffee. It was such a nice morning that the rest of the day looked promising. Not a cloud in sight and a cool wind culling in from the ocean.

Ivan spied the maids jostling around, tying curtains just as they struggled to open the old rickety windows. The home felt much more fresh when the wind let in and in that moment Ivan decided he would spend the entire day in and around the home. He had considering heading into town to view the local place but he was content in his relaxed state.

His ears caught sound of small birds chirping, no doubt perched in Mrs. Thatcher's juniper trees fenced around the home. When his eyes went searching for the creatures to see the kind of bird they were his gaze halted. There, by the newly opened windows in the lounge room sat a man in a wheelchair.

Ivan was surprised he hadn't seen him before. He hadn't known when he had gotten there and the Russian briefly wondered if he had just overlooked him. But there he was, seated and quiet.

Ivan would have paid him no mind save for the fact that this man was all by himself. Alone, just looking out of the windows. Really there wasn't much of a view from where he sat, a large pine tree covered with vines shot up in front of the window and offered a poor view of the full estate. It would be best to move for a more eye-pleasing position, but the man stayed put . . . looking out at nothing.

For a moment Ivan believed him to be mad, but he knew that any unfit mind would be sent to a proper home and not a respected home and board like this. The mad would scare away customers and artists, and Mrs. Thatcher couldn't have that, no businessman—or woman—would.

Ivan really shouldn't have let his curiosity fly because now he was examining the man more. Taking in the color of his hair, the texture of his skin, and the posture of his position. It was hard to see anything more from how he sat. His back was mostly toward Ivan and anything else was hidden from sight.

"That's Alfred."

Ivan blinked and turned his head to see Mrs. Thatcher standing near to him. He hadn't even noticed the woman approach him. Had he been that indulged in observation?

"Don't you mind him," he said. Her pale blue eyes looked at Ivan like a mother would their child before letting them off into the classroom. Her gaze softened when her eyes turned toward the man so named as Alfred. "He's here at his parents own expense. Thought some mountains would help ease his soul." But the hopeless sigh let Ivan know just what the woman thought of this man's "treatment." "I'm afraid nothing's seemed to help him. After all he's lost a lot more than any human being on the planet should."

Ivan might have inquired the woman on more information but he didn't want to pry. It wasn't polite and he was not sent an ocean away at the suggestion of his family just to examine that of a man in depression. The old country offers plenty enough of that.

But when the old woman approached the man named Alfred, Ivan observed from afar. She was kneeling down, speaking to him, asking if he'd like to return to his room.

"You can't just wait around here until lunch, that's quite rude," Mrs. Thatcher spoke to him. Alfred didn't return her conversation which paved the way for Ivan's mind to think this person truly mad. The elderly woman simply housed this incapable for the money of his generous parents. "Do you wish to go out onto the patio?" The woman asked and it was then Ivan caught the sight of a slight shake of his head. Was the man communicating through gestures? Perhaps he was mute. How sad. "How about the parlor?" Again another small shake of the head. "No? Then is it to your room again?"

There wasn't a reaction at first but then there was a slight nod. Mrs. Thatcher sighed, her eyes glanced back toward where Ivan was seated, knowing he was watching. She paid the Russian no mind, however, and instead maneuvered around Alfred and took hold of the handles on the back of his wheelchair. Such a sweet old woman to personally push him herself.

When she turned the man to the side Ivan came to understand the meaning behind previous phrases. He had indeed lost much more than many humans alive today. Both of his legs . . . they were gone.

The sight shocked Ivan. His lips parted and a quiet gasp nearly resounded, but he was quick to catch himself and remain quiet out of respect, however, he could not avert his eyes. He held the man's form while Mrs. Thatcher pushed him away into the halls. One thing that struck Ivan the most was how young this man was . . . he wasn't even a man, but a mere boy!

That face. It was Alfred's downcast face that had fooled Ivan of its age. The frown, the near-emptiness in those frame-colored eyes, it aged the boy horribly. But surely this Alfred could be no more than twenty.

Interesting enough, right before this Alfred was pushed out of sight, the moment he passed by the arc of the dining area Ivan was seated in those dull blue eyes moved. Surprisingly the gaze turned to look at Ivan. The Russian hadn't expected that and their eyes met, though, Ivan was certain Alfred really hadn't "looked" at him. He clearly was not in that state of mind to concentrate on anything except the demons inside his head.

The demons inside his head . . .

Ivan shouldn't have pried, but he was curious. He drew close to Mrs. Thatcher who was a polite woman herself who helped the hired hands with chores around the house and if Ivan wanted to inquire any information from her then he would best suit himself to accompany her on errands in town or around the home making himself useful with his presence.

"I knew that boy since he was a little swaddling in a cradle," Mrs. Thatcher said while she hung up laundry to dry on the lines in the work field near the shed and barn. Ivan was with her, holding the basket full of linen sheets. "I knew his sister too. He didn't come into this world alone like the rest of us." She smiled after pining the sheet she was handling and shaking it in the wind. "He was a twin. He and sister were such sweet little things. Amelia was her name. She used to play with my daughter Lisa." Mrs. Thatcher paused, her smile fading when she snatched up another sheet to hang. "Until a fever took her one night," she informed.

Ivan nodded to himself. A sibling losing their brother or sister was hard. He was lucky enough to grow with both his sisters. His eldest had a scare when they were younger, but she healed and is such a sturdy woman to this day.

"Alfred had a fiery spirit in him," Mrs. Thatcher continued. Her smile had returned. "Always the optimist, that boy. When Lisa lost her playmate he stepped in for her and now it was almost like he had a sister again and my daughter a brother." The old woman shook the sheet in her hand again with a heavy sigh. "Until the fever took my daughter as well."

Setback after setback Ivan learned of this boy's childhood, and yet he was still so young. Mrs. Thatcher informed him he had just turned the age of nineteen back in July and so many of these happenings had only been a few years back for the youth. But no matter the trials he faced in his rearing it was the past half-decade that had tested his resolve—that had finally broken his spirit.

"The boy dun run off and joined the army at the tender age of fifteen," Mrs. Thatcher informed. There were no more sheets to hang. Both she and Ivan were seated on a small wooden bench for the weary worker to relax on when worked taxed them. "His parents were so upset with him that he didn't have the nerve to write to them. But he wrote to me." Mrs. Thatcher smiled with her chuckle. "He wrote to me so much that his commander thought I was his mother, so I was the one who received news of his devastating injury."

Ivan would not have pressed for detail. Just seeing Alfred was enough to let the imagination run, and no doubt the endeavors of the mind came close to the truth. Horrific was horrific.

But the old woman told Ivan. Mrs. Thatcher looked at the Russian and told him just how Alfred had lost his legs. "A cannon fire blew his horse right out from underneath him. The shrapnel tore into his legs while the dead weight of the animal crushed his bones into sawdust. There was no saving the limbs and the army don't have any place for a soldier with no legs to stand on."

Anyone with a weak heart would have fainted at Mrs. Thatcher's account of what happened, but Ivan was a romanticist and could find amazement in anything. It was a sad thing, what had happened to the boy. Tragic really. But tragedy did fuel inspiration.

"When did this happen?" Ivan questioned.

"Back in April," Mrs. Thatcher informed. "He struggled just to heal, but even when the lacerations sealed right up we all knew he hadn't fully recovered." She looked at Ivan then, her face quite haunting. "I'm afraid you'll find many a man like Alfred in this country, Mr. Braginsky. War is a terrible thing and even when it's over the scars remain. It's just such a shame really . . . to have as high of spirits as his cut like that."

A shame indeed. But Mrs. Thatcher was right; that was what war created. Ivan was certain he could find much more tragic sadness down in the southern states of the country and the failed rise of a country not meant to be, but this Alfred did very much depict the epitome of it all, at least in Ivan's eyes.

One would think it would be quite rude to draw inspiration from the sorrows and suffering of another, but such was the way of a poet. Ivan began to write during his stay in Mrs. Thatcher's room and board home where he mingled with the other tenants and ever observed the sole Civil War veteran. Soon enough he became just as isolated as Alfred, speaking little, keeping to his books and pen and paper, staying in the dining area to watch the way Alfred gazed out of the windows in the lounge room.

His eyes were on the boy wishing to capture his pity, his disdain, and emptiness, yet when the Russian looked down at the words on his paper he found himself astonished. Such words did not captivate those of a spiritually wounded soldier, but of a secretly awe-struck admirer. Oh my, when had this happened?

Ivan had examined his words for days, trying to make sense of them all, trying to figure out where and how they were written. In the end he smiled after realizing he had let himself go and opened his soul to the poetry residing in the surrounding atmosphere. It was a beautiful piece and so he felt the need to share it with the one who rightly inspired it.

"Mr. Jones?"

This was the first time Ivan ever made an effort to approach the boy. Being up so much closer opened the poet's eyes to more detail about the American and his hand itched to take up his pen and jot down his feelings, but now was inopportune, he had a duty to see to right now.

Of course the American didn't respond to him. It was expected. Ivan simply smiled and leaned down beside him to see eye-to-eye, if he'd look at him that is. "My name is Ivan Braginsky. I come from Russia and am visiting this nation for inspiration you see. I am a writer of poems. Do you like poetry, Alfred?" If Ivan wouldn't have known the boy's background then he might have felt a little perturbed that he wouldn't respond to him. "Perhaps you would like to listen to some of mine? I had originally written it in Russian and forgive me if the translation is lacking, but I believe I've made some effort for it to sound pleasant to the ears and mind."

Ivan held up the paper he had written the poem down on. He was overjoyed to read it to the one who figuratively wrote the words. It was always a way of payment for a poet to return the gratitude.

"The light is shining through the sill

Its rays dost catch upon beauty still

It brings with it its friend the breeze

To touch, to caress, to glide o'er thee

Together would you inhale their gift

Presented before you, full length and width

Should they press closer to brush thy lips

A smile they seek, no more than this

To brighten eyes, and lighten souls

To show this world a beauty behold

Oh, fainted one, look up to them

Hued round eyes of sapphire gem

And golden strands of wheat so bounteous

Reflection of this land; blessed prosperous

With light so bright and breeze so e'er

Wouldst thy countenance redeem to fair

Erasing the years of yester-month

But first it is time to inhale and stand up."

It was a pretty little poem and Ivan hadn't revised a thing. He didn't feel it needed touched up at all. It would be nice to receive any sort of review from the one who so inspired the words, but when Ivan looked toward Alfred he had been caught off guard.

Ivan hadn't expected the American to be looking at him. Hardly an expression revealed any emotion on Alfred's face. There was no gleam in his eyes, Ivan knew they were focusing on him and that the boy was looking right at him, but other than that Alfred's mind did not account any importance in the situation.

"That . . . was the worst." Ivan hadn't expected Alfred to react in any way; to move, to look at him, or to speak for that matter. But he did, and what came out of his mouth was disheartening, not for the writer of the light rhyme but for the critique.

Ivan's eyes widened at Alfred's reaction and when he spoke and he heard him for the first time his jaw loosened, pale lips partings perhaps to speak or perhaps to gap in awed amazement. Ivan hadn't expected Alfred's tone to be as deep, it did not fit his features but the grounder sound was expected for one who spoke perhaps once a week.

It must be because Alfred was so young why Ivan felt the way he did. He's seen his fair share of wounded soldiers, but Alfred seemed different to him and he didn't know why. His heart clenched just at watching Alfred turn his face away from him, setting his gaze out of the window to stare blankly once more. His words following were depressing.

"Full of misconceptions and falsities," Alfred whispered before growing silent once more. Tuning the world out, and Ivan.

To question a writer's source of inspiration was one thing, but to out rightly cut it down when it was declared to be written from the observation of oneself was . . . very sad. Ivan really didn't know what to think of it. He hadn't expected a response to his read poem and therefore could think of nothing in retort.

For days he thought about what had happened and he became troubled. Not for himself, but for the young de-spirited soldier. He sounded as if he lost all hope, all hope in himself. And that just wouldn't do with Ivan.

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 **DOTR** **: On a note, forgive me for poor poetry (it's not my best forte). On another note, hope you guys enjoyed and are liking the idea of a story like this. This fic shouldn't be too long. Thanks for reading and tell me what you think!**


	2. For You Do I Write

So he wrote. Ivan wrote and wrote. He wrote a poem each day and every day right after breakfast, when the rest of the tenants moved either into the parlor or headed off to see family and friends and to work jobs Ivan would come to Alfred, the boy would settle in the same place every day and didn't show signs of changing viewing spots. So Ivan would come to him, he'd kneel down, take out the poem he had so written down that day and read it to him. Alfred didn't make any more comments on them, didn't even look at Ivan as he read it and then excused himself when the reading was over.

In a way Ivan was glad for Alfred's silence, because there was no protest in him coming to him and reading him a poem a day. The servants and Mrs. Thatcher would sometimes steal themselves into the lounge area just to hear the reading. Ivan was a very good poet and for Alfred to gain the companion of one so talented was a blessing, that which he showed no care for.

"Alfred, Mr. Braginsky is a nice man," Mrs. Thatcher said one day while she rolled Alfred back into his room. She had been upset lately over his lack of notice to these generous gifts. "He just wants you to gain some small form of happiness again. Shunning him like that; what would your parents say?" The old woman did catch Alfred looking at her and when she glared at him hard the soldier turned his gaze away, instead he moved himself to his bed on his own, ignoring even her more so.

Mrs. Thatcher sighed. She didn't know what to do with the boy, but she was grateful he now had a companion who would continue to try when all others failed to bring back the boy's speech and attention.

With her pressing and constant reprimanding, and Mr. Braginsky's daily poetry, it was only a matter of time before Alfred's persona shifted—especially if he was annoyed of all the sudden attention in his solitude.

"Stop."

Ivan had faltered in his read. His eyes looked up from the words on the paper toward Alfred. The boy was not looking at him, no, his gaze was still set out the window staring off into nothing. But the frustration inside him was easily pooling out from his eyes.

"I don't want to hear anymore," Alfred said. His voice was softly hoarse. He hadn't spoken much since the amputation. His throat could use practice forming words and strengthening its voice.

"But I have not finished," Ivan simply replied, wavering the paper to show the more verses yet to be recited. "It would please me if you should let me continue to the last sentence."

"And it would please me that you steal yourself away from me," Alfred snapped back. His tone was heightening. It was clear he was upset with Ivan's constant visits.

Mr. Braginsky was a patient man. He was also a big brother, he knew when one was throwing a tantrum. Alfred was falling into this state.

With a smile, Ivan said, "This lounge is to the public. I see no reason to remove myself."

"You are a disturbance so close to me." Finally Alfred turned. It was clear he disliked the poet and his want for him to leave him was highly noted.

While Ivan understood Alfred to be suffering from a frustrated tantrum he was not the boy's big brother. Above all he was a gentleman and did as the boy wished. He moved from him and watched the American turn his attention back toward the window before him.

The proximity may have been changed, but there was no complaints to Ivan taking a seat on the reading couch and continuing where he left aloud. After all, if a poem didn't sound right being read aloud then it shouldn't exist in the first place.

"Turn ear to the bird and her song. She sings for every man willing to listen to her tune. She entices us with the melody and in the notes are written spoken words to away outside to her.

She will smile if we smile in return. Like all creatures of the earth they long for their brother, man, to join them in song. But we sit so silent, so alone in the presence of others. We have forgotten the song of the sun's rise.

What then shall we do to remember it?"

What then indeed. Ivan quieted after the last line. He turned his gaze toward Alfred. He could not see his face from where he sat, but in some way he knew he was listening.

The servants and Mrs. Thatcher had made it their personal agenda to stand in for the reading. It took place the same time every day, and now Ivan's noticed his crowd had grown, even some residents rooming there would spend time away from their daily activities to give ear to Ivan's poetry.

They would comment in private with him, praise his work. Ivan adored their return reviews, but the one he longed to hear from the most was that whom it was written for. In the beginning Ivan told himself that if he could just read the poems to Alfred then he'd be satisfied, but his spirit was lacking with each passing day, and now the poems were becoming almost like written letters.

"The days grow cold, as does the heart.

The winds are harrowing this time apart.

Cloud covered skies dost hide the sun and his light.

Perhaps that is why the smile fades and lips part at the reign of night.

This land in seasons do pass.

For time is time that shall wait upon no living thing of mass.

Could time heal this land where so much sadness shed?

Nay, it looks dim, unsoundly bleak to mend.

Stream by stream and tree by tree,

Rock over mountain and desert into sea.

Even the worms in the earth do understand

That which took part in, around, and on this land.

Like mother who travails the labor of her child so too will this land do work to bring forth fruit,

Of which all that live off of her can sustain and grow and continue.

In time the child will arrive.

The mother will smile.

She will hold him in her arms.

She will weep.

She will laugh.

And she will sing.

Child and parent shall take hand in hand and watch the days pass together in a place where there isn't the existence of suffering."

It was late October, the days were growing colder, but Alfred still sat by the window, still wished it open to let the air awash over him. Ivan did not see any particular change in the American. That is . . . until the day his parents came to visit him.

The two were very handsome. Alfred's father was a tall white-haired old man, lengthy, with sharp eyes. His mother was quite the opposite. She was smaller, more plump but ever beautiful in her aging years. While her husband's locks had long since lost their color hers remained a vibrant golden, like her son's. She had softer eyes than her husband, and rosy cheeks. Indeed they were a pleasant couple to behold.

Alas their sadness and weariness even overwhelmed Ivan. He watched them encounter Alfred outside in the garden. It had been a very nice day that day. A simple light covering was all that was needed for the chill in the air. Mrs. Thatcher had served brunch out in her garden to view her roses and fruit trees before the winter set in. Despite the knowledge that Alfred didn't like leaving the home the old woman so pushed him outside anyway, and that was when his parents came to him.

They looked hopeful. Ivan wasn't quite sure of what. This place was not a place to where it would help Alfred regrow his lost legs.

Ivan could hear them through the glass windows. They sounded as pleasantly as they looked and Mrs. Thatcher spoke to them as if she had just seen them yesterday. The level of friendship displayed by the two parents and the widow was quite endearing, but when all talks turned to Alfred as well as eyes the tones dimmed and the smiles faded.

Ivan could see the look in Mrs. Jones eyes. She looked expectant, while her husband looked more upset; whether it was because of Alfred's behavior or his own personal issues was up for debate. But Ivan silently watched from the parlor window with a drink in his hand.

He could see Mrs. Thatcher trying to coax words out of Alfred, explaining to his parents that she had heard him speak—that being to combat Ivan away from him—but he impressed his parents not. The subtle heartbreak was very sad and Ivan could not help but silently wish his condolences to the parents. He understood they were trying everything they could for their child in the road to get his mind returned to him as well as a want to speak.

Ivan wondered if Alfred would ever recover. One with a broken spirit usually never did. Ivan's known many a friend and family acquaintance who had fought in one war or another. Their wounds, the loss of their comrades, or even the failure of their armies to secure victory for their country . . . there were so many things that could break a man's spirit. But for one so young. Ivan sighed when he watched Alfred turn his eyes, refusing to look at the adults. It was unfitting.

The Jones had left earlier than planned—no doubt the disheartening realization of the brokenness of their son sending them away. It was a good thing too. Cold rain set into the countryside making travel unmanageable.

Every fire in the home was lit and heavier clothing adorned. The tenants took to reading by hearths and quieting their work before dinner. Ivan was in the music room admiring the numerous instruments covered with a layer of dust. It seemed not a hand has touched these fine pieces in a while.

The music room had no fireplace to warm it and so the room was less than ideal to reside in on cold days like this. Winter was not such a season to welcome with symbols clashing and strings strumming. Not with cold aching fingers.

But Ivan was feeling particularly nostalgic as night set in.

Settling his candlestick down atop the grand piano Ivan pulled the tails from his coat back and sat on the cushioned stool. He looked down at the black and white keys, examining them for a moment before cleaning them of any dust. The cover had been left open.

The piano was out of tune, but Ivan played something that reminded him of home. The melody always relaxed him, preparing him for the wintry days ahead. He certainly hoped that the winters in America were less harsh than that in Mother Russia.

Just as the last note was struck Ivan's attention caught at the thumping of clapping hands. He turned and noticed Mrs. Thatcher standing in the doorway. Always a soft smile on her face—like a mother watching her child.

"You play beautifully, Mrs. Braginsky," she applauded. "Might I inquire as to the tune?"

Ivan chuckled bashfully. "Ah, it was something my mother taught me when I was little. Only my older sister and I took interest in our mother's musical talents. While I continued learning from her, I'm afraid my elder sister took to other such womanly tasks the likes of sewing, spinning, and other various needlework."

"My compliments to your mother then," Mrs. Thatcher said with a nod of approval. "She raised a fine young man with excellent task. If a mother cannot show their children the finery in arts then their father shall whisk them away to war; that's what I always said." She chuckled at the memories. "Well, I was just coming to inform you dinner will be ready soon. It would be a blessing if you could come join us."

"Da, I will," Ivan assured.

He remained seated where he sat. Mrs. Thatcher left to inform everyone else on the close time to dine. Ivan thought about playing one more melody but once he struck the cords he cringed. He could take the out of tune instrument no more.

He stood to his feet and leaned over to shift the strings back into place. He could tune the piano while he waited, he was certain supper was not yet ready. But the worried voice of Mrs. Thatcher caught in his ears and when he turned he saw her race by the door of the music room.

With concern building, Ivan walked out into the hallway to see the old woman rushing toward her maids and other bondsmen. She had her skirt bunched into her hands she was flying that fast. She spoke too fast to the others for him to understand and when she finished Ivan noticed the servants all rushing off in the same speed as she had been earlier.

"Mrs. Thatcher, what seems to be the distress?" Ivan asked, walking toward the jittery woman. He would have made a snide joke about the stew on the stove bubbling over, but he could sense the sensitivity of the moment and remained straightforward.

She turned to him. "It is nothing to worry about," she told Ivan. "I just can't find Alfred. He's usually in his room when I fetch him for dinner." It had been the first time she hadn't seen him in his regular residing place of time. "Nothing to worry about," she said again, though her face spewed worry. "I'm sure he's around here somewhere."

The home was big with plenty of spaces for one such as Alfred to hide. Ivan felt that as any gentleman would do, he would help search. He wouldn't in particular know where to look first, but the sudden clash and crackle of thunder rumbled inside his chest. The whole home seemed to shake and Ivan's attention was called to the storm outside.

A thought came to him, one that he quickly pushed aside. But the sound of another roll of thunder and Ivan found himself pulling on his long coat and heading outside. The last he had seen Alfred he was outside. He understood that Mrs. Thatcher had not approached him forwardly after the meeting with his parents and it was quite possible for an old woman to have forgotten to wheel the soldier inside.

Ivan hoped his assumption was wrong because the rain was heavy and wet and cold. He shivered and dug his nose into his sister's scarf. Even that mighty article of clothing from childhood couldn't fight back the chill of the northern rain.

The storm could have been much worse. The clouds could have been blacker; making visibility near impossible, the rain could have been more violent; rushing sideways, the wind could have been stronger; howling and pushing its way past everything. Aside from the coldness of the rain the storm did not worsen to these extremes and Ivan knew it was because of this that he was able to find the American.

There Alfred was, sitting in his wheelchair along the rows of apple trees. The orchard was near the garden but a ways off almost closer to the lake in the back. No one would have noticed him there.

"Alfred!" Ivan called out to him. Of course the boy did not respond.

Ivan trudged through ankle deep mud and skipped over roots to come next to the boy. He looked at him. Alfred was just sitting there, dressed in his daily attire, no coat or covering of any sort. His shirt was completely soaked through and his trousers near black with rain instead of the gray color of before.

So still he sat, like some proud general beholding a battle unfold before him. Alfred seemed to be on some sort of mission and from the looks of it, the ending result could only be one thing.

Ivan couldn't believe it. He was shocked, but the emotion soon faded to make way for annoyed frustrated anger. Ivan ignored the fervent thoughts that he wanted to leak. The scolding would have to wait for a dry place.

The Russian moved around and grasped the handles of the wheelchair. He had to get Alfred out of the rain.

With a pull Ivan was finding it difficult to move the chair. He looked back down, his eyes widening at the sight of Alfred's hands gripping the wheels to brake himself. Before Ivan even pulled again to try to move the American he heard through the pouring rain, "Leave me alone!"

The Russian poet was now utterly appalled by what Alfred was trying to do. So, without the care for politeness and ease of tone he quite forwardly said, "Nyet! You'll catch your death of cold!" He tried pulling the chair again, but Alfred's grip was hard on the wheels.

"It's what I want!" Alfred bit back. He was looking back at Ivan, such an anger in his gaze. But Ivan watched that emotion dissipate. Those blue eyes fluttered in the rain, sadness bleeding out of them just as the boy tilted his head back downward. "The world doesn't need a man who can't stand on his own two feet." Ivan thought he had caught the sound of a sob, but with the rushing rain he wasn't quite certain.

"I need you!"

In that pause everything was almost silent, even with the storm coming down upon the two. Alfred turned toward Ivan, bright blue eyes looking up at him in confusion. No one needed a man with no legs, so why . . .

Ivan had long since abandoned concern with staying as dry as possible. He was just as drenched as Alfred, and the two of them looked simply pathetic. He understood Alfred's confusion, because even Ivan bore that feeling inside his chest.

"You," Ivan began, his words heard clear even amidst the downpour of rain. "Have become my muse." Alfred seemed confused. It wasn't a term Ivan was sure the boy's heard before. So, he elaborated. "The song in my soul; my inspiration. A poet is nothing without what inspires him," Ivan explained. He needed poetry to write poetry. "Please, don't think yourself useless or unimportant. You're everything to me."

Ivan's never seen as much reaction from the boy than right then in the rain. Wet bangs sticking to forehead and water dripping off nose and lips, Alfred looked quite distraught with disbelief. He was at a loss for words. Ivan could see his jaw slowly moving, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't.

But Alfred kept searching for something to say until he found what his mind quickly conjured. Suddenly he was looking back up at Ivan, eyes narrowed and lips pressed tightly together. "It's because you're a poet! You feed on the miserable and unfortunate. When you're bored of me then there will be no more inspiration. You'll leave because you've gotten what you wanted out of me. No poet cares for the degradation of humans, only his work!"

Ivan was insulted. He literally took a step back at Alfred's outburst. He didn't know how to handle such fire in that bite. He hadn't known Alfred could be so . . . loud.

But what the American said about poets upset Ivan more than seeing the boy trying to kill himself with forced sickness. It was true that writers mostly observed. Ivan was supposed to do just that, but he got involved. Some writers did, so not all poets were monsters that enjoyed watching the world and their fellow man fall apart.

The Russian used his anger to lead his trembling body. It warmed his bones enough to settle their shake just as he moved around Alfred's chair and took hold of the handles to try to pull him back toward the house. Again Alfred resisted by holding onto the wheels. He was intent on killing himself out there in the storm.

That was the last straw.

Ivan released the handles and marched around the chair. He didn't care for Alfred glaring at him. In a way he was glad the American was looking at him, that his eyes were focusing on something. Perhaps this was the beginning of his relapse . . . but only if he didn't die within a week of caught pneumonia.

Ivan certainly had caught Alfred by surprise when he leaned forward and hooked his hands underneath his armpits, hoisting him up. It was a small comfort and delight to know the American's mind was still sharp; Alfred had caught onto what Ivan was trying to do the moment he grabbed underneath his arms and immediately tried clinging onto the wheels of the chair to keep him rooted. The struggle was minimal and Ivan had succeeded in picking up the soaking wet veteran and holding him in his arms tightly.

Alfred's eyes were so wide. One would think what Ivan had done was the rudest thing. Actually, it was quite disrespectful, but it was necessary.

Finally, Alfred's mouth previously gapping like a fish remembered how to move to form words. He was loud before, but up closer he was deafening. "Put me down!" The American demanded. He even pulled his arms back and slammed his palms into Ivan's chest and fists onto his shoulders, his stunts only wiggling back and forth; useless as ever.

The American was promptly ignored while Ivan fought back through the mud and pouring rain to get back into the house. Alfred continued to struggle, but the tears in his eyes began weakening his attempt when Ivan finally managed to make it back inside.

Mrs. Thatcher had been in such a panic after finding Alfred nowhere in the house that dinner had been delayed. When Ivan came back inside the home dripping wet with Alfred in his arms the old woman rushed to them and placed her hands on both of them.

"Oh, Alfred, Ivan!" She looked near to tears. She tried examining Alfred's state but the bitter embarrassment of being handled like how he was made him press his red face into Ivan's shoulder, his own body shaking with chill and sorrow. "Take him to his room!"

Ivan did as instructed and Mrs. Thatcher ordered the servants to bring warm towels, hot drink, and a bed heater for Alfred that night. Then she and Ivan set to settling Alfred in his room.

Away from concerned eyes, Mrs. Thatcher bade her other guests to finish their dinner and carry on with their nightly activities, she didn't let anyone else inside Alfred's room save she and Ivan. Just as soon as they entered she left toward the bathing room where she went to work drawing a hot bath.

Ivan tried his best to place Alfred on the bed gently, but the moment he leaned over Alfred's grip on him released and now he was pushing him away. "Get away!" Alfred cried, his eyes clenched shut and lips trembling out pitiful sobs. Alfred had been humiliated and ever reminded of how useless he was to society.

His sad uttered cries alerted Mrs. Thatcher. She was quick to come back into the bedroom. Ivan had remained a distance, himself shivering from the cold.

"You return to your room and get yourself a hot bath, Mr. Braginsky," she so ordered while moving around the bed and reaching out gently to take off Alfred's slipping glasses.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Ivan questioned, but he could not surprise the chatter of his teeth. He was deftly chilled to the bone.

"You've done enough," she said. She was now trying to coax Alfred to turn over, but the boy laid on his side, hiding his face in his arms and crying. "I thank you for everything, Mr. Braginsky. You may go."

Of course Ivan would be hesitant. He had just witnessed Alfred's most stubborn streak and he wondered if the old woman could combat that. But he reminded himself that she was like a second mother to him and could no doubt handle herself.

The need to bathe in warm waters and settle into dry clothing won Ivan's internal battle, but once he was settled in without the slightest sign of a cold he was back to Alfred's room. Mrs. Thatcher had done what she could. Now Alfred was lying in bed, warm and dry. He didn't sleep that night and the lack of rest was blamed for the sickness that came over him the next morning. Ivan had tried, he really had tried, but the thing he struggled for and threw away manners for to prevent ended up happening to the boy anyway.

The storms did not let up so it was impossible to retrieve a doctor from town as well as inform Alfred's parents on his dangerous condition. So he was waited on, the smallest movement and Mrs. Thatcher nearly had a heart attack. She didn't want anyone in his room save for her and her helpers, but she informed news for those concerned.

Finally the poor woman had nearly fainted from exhaustion. While she rested in her room maids would check on Alfred every hour to track his condition. But all was quiet from Jones' room, and Ivan was frightened for his life.

Just like Mrs. Thatcher, sleep alluded him and meals turned to bitter ash in his mouth. The only thing filling the Russian's belly was coffee of the blackest kind. He tried to busy himself, to write, read, tune that damn piano, but he couldn't. His feet led him to Alfred's room, his eyes always wandering off back toward its direction. That white door of his now engrained into Ivan's brain and he could see its outline when he closed his eyes.

So now Ivan found himself standing outside the room more oft than not. He'd long since understood he couldn't focus on anything but the hope that the American get better.

What Alfred had said before disturbed Ivan's thoughts. Partly because of how true they were. Artists, they watched more than assisted. Happiness, tragedy, it was all the life-force of those who wished to capture it and show it to the world who couldn't see it.

As of right now Ivan should have a pen and paper in hand, writing feelings down, explaining how tragedy did as it pleased, and happiness was never wholly lasting and the main driving force in the world. It was true the world was a cruel place, but Ivan's mind would not work clearly.

It had been he who found Alfred. It had been he trying to get him to save his life. It had been he trying to convince the boy that he wasn't worthless.

Why was that? Ivan had not come to the United States of America to delve into personal lives. He was there to make acquaintances, not necessarily friends. The country had just gotten over a civil war and so the emotions of the land was fuming, escalating high. It was the perfect destination for any needing scraps to feed their muse.

Ivan felt his muse must be sick with the nutrition given. He couldn't think right now, which was rare for him. So he began to try reading again. It was a book filled with his old poems.

He tried reading to himself while leaning against the door to Alfred's room. The maid had just left after checking in on him, and Ivan decided to remain close as well. He abided by Mrs. Thatcher's wishes and did not enter, but he stayed close. He felt more at ease during this strenuous time, if being close to Alfred so he could be there first when he passed was "more at ease."

Reading proved just as useless as sitting in the library, but Ivan would have none of that. He tried focusing on the words, really putting all his attention into the task of translating the words into his head and then converting them into images so his imagination had something to run on. Nothing, he couldn't do it. So, he became so frustrated with his body not doing what he wanted that he began to force himself to read. He began to read aloud.

It had been faltering before the words flowed off his tongue better. Suddenly, he was reminded of the days he used to read his poems to Alfred. Indeed the American hadn't paid attention to him or the poems he recited but in his heart of hearts he thought he might have. Ivan liked reading to Alfred. He missed it really.

So now he pretended Alfred could hear him—he possibly could if he wasn't slipping from consciousness—and began reading as if to him. It was better this way, not as forced when he felt he had some sort of audience. He read for hours and when the maid returned every now and then she would smile at him and let him continue.

Ivan had continued into the night and when the morning light hit him he was startled to awake. He hadn't even realized he had fallen asleep. The moment he began looking around his gaze noticed the presence of Mrs. Thatcher. She had her hand on the partially opened door and she was looking at him.

"He's asking for you, Mr. Braginsky," was all the woman said.

Now, Ivan had just woken up. His mind was still slow, especially in the first few moments of consciousness. He stood and followed the woman when motioned inside, but when his eyes fell on the form in the bed he realized her meaning.

There was Alfred, he was awake, and he was looking at Ivan.

"The fever broke last night," Mrs. Thatcher informed. "The storm had as well so we're fetching a doctor." She smiled and turned to Alfred. "You're a fighter, Alfred, always have been."

Alfred said nothing. He inhaled a deep breath and settled into the sheets. Ivan felt relaxed in watching Alfred's body settle down.

He could still see the tints of red on Alfred's face from the traces of the fever. But it could have been worse, so much worse, especially for someone like Alfred whose will to fight was near nonexistent.

"I know what you'll like, Alfred, a bowl of ice cream. Let me go and make some for you." Mrs. Thatcher turned and before she headed out of the room she looked at Ivan sternly. "You watch him."

"Da," Ivan obeyed.

When she was gone Ivan's attention was pulled from her departure when Alfred spoke.

"Last night . . . what were you reading?" Alfred asked. His voice was scratchy and tone soft. He lay there staring up at the ceiling.

Ivan was more so surprised Alfred had heard him than him speaking to him right then. "A book of my own," Ivan informed. "Old poetry."

"There was one poem, or maybe a few . . . it made me have a dream of that day." When Alfred's hand subconsciously reached down and rubbed one of his stunted legs Ivan understood. "You know . . . that would have been the last battle before leave?" Alfred swallowed hard. "Me and my best friend Davie were going to go home together. Grew up in the same town, lived just down the road from the other . . . he was with me when the cannon fire hit our flank." Blue eyes turned to look at a listening Russian. Ivan was not contemplating on formulating a tragic poem inside his head from the experiences of this young veteran. He was simply listening because he was being told and would likely not be told again. "Davie didn't make it . . . and I . . ." Alfred inhaled another breath, Ivan could hear the quiver in it. There was a hard smile on his lips, and with a shake of his head he said, "I wish . . . that I wouldn't have survived. That way I'd get buried in that nice graveyard next to Davie. Death in the battlefield is better than how I'm living right now." Just then Alfred looked down at his stunted legs in distain, in regret.

Ivan remained quiet, still. The heartache of a soldier was known by no other, and Ivan doubted any poet or artist could capture such grief.

"Heh," Alfred reached up and rubbed his red eyes. "I blame your poems for making me dream that."

"Forgive me," Ivan pardoned. He remembered which poems he had been reading. "Those were the more tragic of my writings. If you wish I could read you more pleasant ones."

To Ivan's surprise Alfred turned his head, looked at him with his blue eyes, smiled at him and said, "Yeah . . . I would like that."


	3. Poetry is Life

Ivan used to hate winters. Some of his most unpleasant memories came from the time in that season of year. But that winter spent in the U.S. was strangely becoming. Ivan's never thought anything positive of the weather in such months.

But Alfred was letting him read to him, for certain Ivan now knew the boy was listening to him. The American was speaking a little bit more, it was very nice. There was no inspiration to fight but an almost need to be beside Alfred and to smile at him and to read to him . . . and to play the piano for him.

"What is that melody?" Alfred questioned. His eyes were focused on the snowfall descending from the heavy clouds over head outside. The countryside was painted white.

Ivan didn't falter in his play. He simply smiled and said, "It's Mozart's sonata number 12." He figured the major key note would be well received. A lighter melody for a lighter mood would be nice.

It was funny really, because winter was Ivan's worst time of year for inspiration. It always depleted once the chill set in and the snow fell. He didn't write, he didn't socialize too much, and he certainly didn't find the want to play any instrument of choice.

Yet there Ivan was . . . playing a favorite piece for an American amputee.

"I can do a lot more than just write poetry," Ivan informed as he let his fingers glide over the ivory keys. "Music is an art all its own; able to emit emotion from those who create it, play it, and hear it." He turned toward Alfred and smiled at noticing those blue eyes on him. "Does it make you happy, Alfred?"

It pleased the Russian to see the small twitch of a smile, but that was all he received. Alfred turned back in his chair to watch the snow fall more. "It's snowing a lot," Alfred mentioned aloud.

Ivan turned on the piano stool to see the snow blanketing the sills. Meter by meter it piled. "Da, it is."

There was no hazardous storm in the wintery months as expected there would be. The snow fell in progression but did not burden those it covered. There were more clear days than not and when the sun shined its rays on the freshly fallen powder, why, Ivan's never believed he's seen anything more beautiful.

A wintery wonderland in its finest. The white mass glittered all around from the rays of the sunlight above. The blue skies painted overhead nicely and contrasted in harmony.

For the first time in his life Ivan wanted to go outside and enjoy the fresh snowfall. He felt pulled toward it. It felt nice to wrap himself up and walk around the frozen garden with his hands fitted in warm gloves and hat atop his head.

But of course his sudden need for a walk amongst the frozen flora came about in the time of day when he was to read to Alfred. It wasn't polite to excuse the companionship of a friend to take time to one's self. And so Ivan had forced Alfred into a coat and hat of his own and pushed him along the frozen flowerbed with him.

Ivan could tell Alfred wasn't happy with being taken outside, but he fumed to himself while Ivan looked for a leisurely place to sit and read.

"Here we are," Ivan hummed to himself just as he settled Alfred next to a stone bench. With a wipe of his hand the snow gathered atop the granite seat was wiped clean and Ivan sat himself down. He pulled out his book nestled inside his petticoat and began reading a poem Alfred had yet to hear.

But of course the boy would have none of that.

"It's too cold out here. Take me back inside." Alfred's voice was still light and not as clear as it was that evening in the rain, but even Ivan caught the tone of demand in what he said.

Of course Ivan simply brushed him and his wants aside as if he were nothing but a whiny little child. "Cold?" Ivan questioned, his eyes still holding in the gaze of the words on the pages of the book in his hand. "Come now, Alfred. You were born and raised in this land. I should think you used to the weather. I, myself, come from a much colder country. This day is very nice."

And so Alfred had to sit through the poetry reading. There was no shivering limbs or chattering teeth. The American teen was fine.

After Ivan had slipped the book back into his coat he decided to explore the new world around him. He would not leave Alfred, knowing his chair could easily get caught in the mud or ice. So he pushed him along with him.

Seeing the American winter was like seeing the season for the first time to Ivan. He was thoroughly amazed with its peacefulness. Of course when he came down out of his fascination to pay attention to the veteran in his care.

Ivan glanced down to make sure Alfred was still warm and well. He wasn't moving, but those blue eyes of his were hard-set on the beautiful stallions prancing in the pasture off to the right. Even the animals were quite enjoying the weather.

"Horses?" Ivan questioned. "You want to go and see them, Alfred?"

As quick as ever Alfred's gaze averted, shooting away quickly to make it seem as if he hadn't been staring at the beasts. "No," he answered quickly.

"I think you do," Ivan hummed while turning Alfred in his chair and pushing him closer to the fence.

There was a chestnut one prancing along the white fence who seemed to notice the oncoming humans. He awaited them and Ivan was glad because he set Alfred right next to the creature, letting the horse lean his head over the fence and inhale the American's scent.

Ivan smiled. "It looks like he likes you."

The vision of the horse nuzzling his muzzle into Alfred was a pleasant one. Ivan would remember every detail of it. The American looked natural with the horse. Ivan wondered if he was reminded of his time served attending his own rides in the war.

"How about when spring comes you try riding horses again?" Ivan suggested. It shouldn't be that much of a challenge to strap the amputee into a saddle—but that was after the ice and mud cleared. "You'd like to be on one again, da?"

And just like that Alfred shifted. A frown hardened his once soft lips and his hands were quick to push the horse's head away from him. No matter how much the creature neighed and snorted, or even gnawed on the American's scarf, Alfred promptly ignored it and set his eyes on the home instead.

"Take me back inside," Alfred once again demanded.

Ivan hadn't meant to bring up hard memories. Alfred had looked so at home with the stallion that he assumed he adored the creatures and perhaps enjoyed riding. It was an innocent suggestion, but insensitive, given the current standing with how Alfred lost his legs. If he did fancy the riding animals then he surely wouldn't forget having lost the one under him as the cannon fire destroyed his legs and the life of a dear friend.

In apology Ivan abided by Alfred's wishes and took him inside. Alfred didn't speak for the entire day afterwards, or much of anything else the days following. The next time he spoke only negativity passed out of his lips.

"I don't want you to read to me anymore," Alfred stated. He wasn't looking at the Russian who had settled in a seat beside the American.

"Why is that?" Ivan questioned. He had thought Alfred was enjoying the readings, after all, he had personally asked for them after the fever scare.

"I just don't want to listen to you anymore," Alfred answered. His stuttering breath let the poet know there was more to his reasons for wishing to end their daily reading than simple annoyance or lack of interest.

"If you do not provide me with a plausible reason then I will continue reading to you," Ivan explained without a care for the boy's temper.

"Don't," Alfred warned. He turned to look at Ivan, his eyes quite upset through his glasses.

"Why?" Ivan inquired once more.

"Because!" Alfred shifted in his wheelchair at his raise of tone. Other tenants going about their business heard him, and he wasn't heard from often and so many a curious eye looked his way. So Alfred turned his face away from the spectators and looked outside his viewing window again, taking in the failing light of the day. "I don't like them. They make me . . . think things . . ."

Ivan was about to smile at the confession. Good, poetry was supposed to invoke your imagination and swell your heart. It was a compliment on his writing.

That is, if Alfred wouldn't have said, "And remember things . . . things I'm trying to forget. So if you would kindly stop reciting your poetry to me I'd be much appreciative."

Ivan understood, and again he abided by Alfred's wish. But it didn't feel right anymore, waking up, eating breakfast and then skipping the poetry right before brunch. Alfred's business remained the same and Ivan would see him staring out of the window often, as usual.

He knew the American was haunted by what had happened. He understood many in the land were now. Alfred's side had won the war but after losing so much he couldn't find a thing to be happy about and it was very unbecoming of the once-bright teen.

So Ivan set out to write a poem. He's never written one in the winter before. His heart's never been right around this time of year.

But the turmoil usually overflowing with abundance in these dreadful months was replaced with determination. The will to write a poem that he was certain could lift Alfred's spirits.

Ivan had been reading Alfred-what he assumed to be—his lighter poems. He hadn't known that the expression of happiness was worded differently in the United States. He never thought his own terms to be so demeaning and bleak, but it proved that way for Alfred and so Ivan set to write an American poem.

It was funny how his only fitful place to think clearly about the task at hand was outside on that cold stone bench in the gardens. Ivan made sure he dressed warmly and paid close attention to the temperatures around so not to bring on too much of a chill. But he would sit, every day he'd sit and think and think before he even began to write. Even when he began to write it was hardly a word a day. He'd never taken so long on a poem, but he was careful with each word, considerate of each structure he took.

He wanted this one to be the one to bring about the happy memories for Alfred. A time before the war, before his sister's death. A time when he hadn't the care in the world. Ivan was certain there was such a time and he wanted to capture it.

A good month passed before a word was brought up about Ivan's daily ritual plight into the gardens. It had been Mrs. Thatcher. Even if she was the landlady and didn't have to go as far as involving herself with her residents' lives she did concern herself highly for the Russian poet rooming in her home, particularly because of his intent on helping a boy she's partially raised come out of the darkness of his mind.

"Mr. Braginsky." Mrs. Thatcher had just caught the Russian right before he opened the front door. Adorned in his heavy clothing it was clear he was heading out into the snow again, but the widow still approached him, her face far more concerned on his physical appearance than anything else. "Would you stay inside beside the fireplace today?" She asked of Ivan.

Ivan was almost finished with the poem. He needed his place of solitude, the descending temperature be damned. "I am almost finished," he simply said. She knew he was writing a poem, Ivan had caught her staring from out of the home's windows at times while he meticulously wrote—he's also seen Alfred sometimes view him from behind the glass frames as well.

"Look at yourself, Ivan." Mrs. Thatcher motioned to the Russian's runny nose and red eyes. He was catching a sickness and it was showing. "You do not look well."

Ivan wished Mrs. Thatcher hadn't had mentioned anything. He had been ignoring the cough aching inside his chest and the need to carry multiple handkerchiefs inside his pockets. He was brilliant at being able to trick his body. But now that his appearance was brought up Ivan could feel the heat inside him and he suddenly felt drained.

His hand fell from the doorknob and suddenly everything spun. He felt faint. When his knees buckled and he nearly stumbled to the floor Mrs. Thatcher had rushed to his side to anchor him. She was a strong old woman.

"Easy, Mr. Braginsky. Let's return you to bed and I'll make you something easy to stomach."

Ivan hadn't meant to cause a scene, but there were a few that saw his episode, one of which was Alfred. The American was seated in the lounge room, next to the window as usual, but his eyes were on him. Ivan might have thought he saw some form of concern swirl inside those bland irises, but the Russian was too sick to come to conclusions.

He stayed in bed at Mrs. Thatcher's request and ate whatever she fed him and gave him to drink. After a while his stomach became so upset he could not eat much less drink. He tried to sleep his illness off but the fevered dreams drained his energy even more and after a while he became trapped within them.

It was much too hot in those nightmares. Ivan would have suspected the frigid chill of his homeland during his childhood to be in the terrors in his dreams, and the man in the army uniform that frightened him away on cold nights. He didn't like the winter because of his growing up alongside it. Now though the heat inside him threatened to consume him worse.

The dreams became vivid. Doctors looking at him as if he were a corpse laying on a display table. Mrs. Thatcher was in there as well, sometimes standing in as a nurse and other times feeding him to the point he felt the need to expel the content from his overburdened stomach. Worst of all was the crying. At first sound Ivan thought of his mother, she used to cry a lot when he was little—his sister did the same—and when she appeared in his dreams he became saddened. He missed his mother.

Stranger still had to be the poetry flying around him. He could see written words dance upon him and when he read their structure he could hear the citing clearly. It was so strange but interesting. He's never had such vivid dreams before and Ivan wondered if he'd remember them when he awoke.

He possibly would do these things if he hadn't awoken to something else that caught his attention deeply.

Ivan didn't feel as hot anymore. He could breathe easier as well. His room was alit with the light of a white morning, but the ones waiting in his living space did not look the least bit cheerful for the new day.

Instead, Ivan had looked and noticed Alfred seated close to him. He hadn't even had time to understand that Alfred was in his room—away from his usual spot in the lounge room before the American took quick notice of Ivan's consciousness, and no sooner had they locked gazes that Alfred had risen his arm and slapped a parchment of paper on Ivan's face.

The Russian was startled by the motion as were the other people in the room—which just so happened to be Mrs. Thatcher and a doctor.

"Alfred!" Mrs. Thatcher gasped upon noticing Ivan's return to the living world around and Alfred's sudden reaction to it.

"All for this?!" Ivan hadn't heard Alfred this upset since that rainy day in October. When the paper slipped off Ivan's face to slide onto the pillow his head was propped up on the Russian took notice of the clear distress in Alfred's features . . . especially in those red eyes. "You almost kill yourself for idiotic words on a page? Damn you, Ivan! Damn you!"

"Alfred!" Finally Mrs. Thatcher had to pull Alfred back, and cart him away. No one would have ever thought that Alfred might threaten anyone in a predicament such as his, but now it seems he just might. "How could you say such things?"

Alfred didn't respond to Mrs. Thatcher while she pulled him away by the chair to create a safe distance between he and Ivan. His glare was heated. Ivan's never seen him so angry. Even that day in the rain Alfred had been more sad than anything else. Right now, he was visibly infuriated.

"I don't care!" Alfred spat out, his eyes still harshly on Ivan who looked at him with confusion. "Take me out. I want to go back to the lounge room."

Mrs. Thatcher sighed and looked toward Ivan and then the doctor. She offered an apology before excusing herself and pushing Alfred out of the room.

Ivan had just woken up from simple sleep. He didn't understand why everyone was looking at him like that. Why Alfred was . . .

His gaze turned toward the doctor as the old man pressed his fingers against his wrist. "Doctor?" The man looked at Ivan. "What . . .?"

"You've been fevered for three entire days," the man said with a relieved sigh. "I never expected you to make the night."

Ivan's eyes widened. He had been sick, terribly sick. But he hadn't thought it was that serious.

Mrs. Thatcher returned and approached Ivan's bedside. She reached out and placed her boney hand upon his clammy palm. She blinked away tears with her wide smile. "We're so happy you've woken up. Praise God. It's a miracle. We were all so frightened. Here I was thinking I'd have to write to your family the most horrible news, and Alfred . . . oh . . . that boy."

Speaking of the American. Ivan looked down at the paper splayed upon his pillow. It was the poem he had been working on for so long. He had almost been done with it as well hadn't he fallen ill. But Ivan knew he had no one to blame but himself.

Ivan had been advised to stay in bed and rest as much as he could, but he had been trapped in a heated tormenting dream for days and he didn't want to return. So he roamed the home unable to fall back into dream, and searching for a companion in that lonely hour.

Ivan hadn't wanted to that night but he changed his mind; he paid Alfred a visit and to his surprise the boy wasn't asleep either.

"Why are you in my room?" Alfred was sitting in bed, a small candle lit next to him, and in his lap lay a book. Alfred read a lot in his room, the numerous bookshelves with various books clarified that thought of mind. "I never gave you permission to come and see me. Get out."

"Apologies," Ivan offered, but he had no intention of leaving, not with the way the paper felt in his grasp. He held it up and Ivan caught Alfred's eyes on it. Those blue gems narrowed at the parchment in utter disgust. "I am trying to finish this, but cannot think of anymore words to say."

"Then you're as good as dead, right?" Alfred looked away from Ivan. The anger inside him was either inspiring or astonishing. When Ivan first met the boy he didn't so much as make an emotion to anything.

Ivan sat down on the side of the bed. The shift in the mattress made Alfred turn. The American looked at Ivan warily, it was clear he wanted him off of his bed and out of his room. The hour was late after all.

"It seems I almost was." Ivan knew he shouldn't be chuckling at something like that, but he couldn't help himself. Someone needed to smile and laugh when things proved too frightening and traumatic. After all, what would happen to Alfred if he slipped further into his mind? Ivan shouldn't think there'd be anything left of the boy then. "I am sorry for frightening you and the others. It was not my intention."

"I don't get it."

Ivan hummed for Alfred to continue but this time he turned his head toward him. Ivan could see moisture in those beautiful blue eyes. The Russian doubted that there was any look Alfred couldn't be beautiful in. This boy was a treasure from Mother Earth herself.

When blue eyes met violet Ivan was surprised to see the care in concern in Alfred's features. His lips were trembling and the tears began to flow. "Why?" Alfred cried. His limbs began to tremble, his resolve suddenly broken by Ivan's presence. "Why would you do that? You could have died, Ivan . . . you would have been gone. No more. Why would you do that?"

"I wanted to finish this poem," Ivan said, trying to keep his tone calm to help Alfred calm as well. "It was for you, you know."

"You would have left me!" Alfred was gripping onto his bedsheets so tightly Ivan could her the fabric ripping.

Ivan had nothing to say to that. Alfred cared for him. He smiled at the understanding now. It all made sense why the boy acted the way he did and Ivan felt a sense of satisfaction.

No more was said because Ivan couldn't say anything else. Instead he felt that if he read his poem aloud he'd be able to finish it. And so he read while Alfred trembled and cried just like he had in the rain.

"In the midst of the ice and snow do I dream of summer. Of sun-filled valleys and warm winds from the south sea.

Pastures of green laden upon rolling hills. It's where the stallions run. So fast, like the trout in a stream, they swim over the bristling tall grass.

You can reach out and let their manes run through your fingers, catching a tangle to pull yourself above and feel their excitement in their flight. How refreshing would the air be from above those magnificent creatures?

Take a deep breath. Now, release.

The soul is calm. The spirit resting. Let their relaxation ease your mind and lax your body.

Take heart and curve thy lips to smile. The sun will not set on this day. Not so long as you keep running, as you keep breathing.

That look. Why do you not take my words? Why do you not feel the sail underneath your wings? They are strong enough, all you have to do is jump into the air.

You do not believe me. I am saddened.

What can I say? What can I do? To turn those downtrodden eyes inward.

See the strength: that of a spirit disheartened by naught. It remains stance strong, wings outstretched. Defiant but acceptable. See the beauty: eyes that shine like a clear day's harmony, strands so finer than royal silk. What one would give for one to see its shimmer of golden expense.

It is all very lacking. For without the joy inside everything is hopeless. Useless.

So what can a poor soul do?

What can I do?"

And that was all that Ivan wrote. He could write no more. In fact, he'd been stuck there for days before falling ill.

When he looked at Alfred the other was looking at him, listening in silence. And, just like that, helped finish Ivan's incomplete work.

"Stay," Alfred replied. He inhaled a shaking breath to calm himself. The poem had done a remarkable job of easing the American. Ivan was glad, he had hoped for that exact effect.

"Da." Ivan nodded and took out a pen to scribble down the last line. "I will stay," he repeated the last phrase before turning and placing the poem down upon a nightstand. He offered a soft smile for Alfred and did as the American had wished. He stayed.

The two had fallen asleep lying side by side. Both had been drained of energy and slept well into the afternoon of the next day. No one disturbed them. Their recovery encouraged.


	4. The Most Beautiful Thing

They remained close throughout the winter. They would dine together, read together, and Ivan would often take Alfred into the music room to entertain him with a melody. He had promised the American that he would not head back outside for the remainder of the season and the Russian kept his word.

But when spring arrived Ivan took his determination to get Alfred to ride a horse again to another level of hope.

Mrs. Thatcher was a very involved woman in many of the activities around the stead and outside the property. And so when the roads dried and ice began to melt with the warmer spring temperatures and it was time to ride into town to replenish the home's stocks the old woman accompanied her servants with a long list in hand. Ivan had offered his services if only for an excuse to head into town and bring Alfred along with him.

The American didn't want to come. He was perfectly content with staying at the home or lounging around in the garden. But Ivan would have none of that.

As a means to raise the boy's hopes the Beilschmidt brothers were called in from town to help construct a saddle reasonable for someone like the Civil War veteran to ride. The two men were German immigrants with thick accents Ivan found himself clashing with over understanding, but they were excellent engineers and blacksmiths. He could see no one else crafting what he was looking for.

"Are you certain you attached the latch on properly, Gilbert?" The younger of the two—but clearly the most ingenuitive—Ludwig asked while moving the saddle on the chestnut stallion to check for security.

"For the last time, ja, I did," Gilbert complained from the other side of the animal. He poked his head above the animal's middle to glare at his accusing brother. "But if you'd like to check behind me then go ahead."

While the two brothers fumed over the other with the tedious task of attaching the unique saddle on the patient animal Alfred continually tried to wheel himself away back toward the home, but Ivan kept a good grip on the chair's handles.

"You are not leaving," Ivan insisted, holding Alfred steady in the chair. "Not until we get you riding again."

"I don't want to," Alfred plainly stated. "I want to stay here." He leaned back in his wheelchair with a huffing sigh. His eyes held the scene of the German brothers setting to work at securing the saddle. "Even if you manage to get me on there, there's no telling if I can ride the horse." It was a little hard making commands with no legs, and holding onto the horse would prove difficult too. Humans did a lot of things with their legs that wasn't noticed until they just weren't there anymore.

"That's why I asked the Beilschmidt brothers to make the saddle," Ivan explained. He kept his eyes on the Germans preparing the animal for a rider with no legs. He was very hopeful.

Convincing Alfred to give it a try was hard enough, more so was helping him mount the beast. The American didn't like to be picked up. He had been utterly embarrassed when Ivan had that one rainy October night, and so the Russian was a little more than worried as to how they were going to prop him onto the steed.

But Ludwig and Gilbert knew how to properly handle this. Instead of picking up the amputee like that of a child as Ivan had that one time, they both politely stood on either side of him and scooped him up into their arms, letting Alfred hold onto both their necks while he was hoisted onto the animal.

"There you go," Gilbert praised while helping Alfred settle into the saddle. Ludwig then went to the task of strapping him on and informing the American on what to use for signal commands.

"This should hold," Ludwig informed.

"How's it look from up there, Alfred?" Gilbert asked with an encouraging smile.

Alfred held his frown. With a sigh he took up the reins and looked around. There was Mrs. Thatcher waiting by the wagon with a servant, Ivan stood only a little ways away near Alfred's empty wheelchair. The Russian offered a proud smile while Alfred turned from him again.

"Would you mind trotting some steps?" Ludwig questioned. He let go of the horse's bridle and took a step back to inspect the testing hold.

Again Alfred said nothing. He nodded his head tried his best to control the horse.

"Use the straps, Alfred," Ludwig reminded, following Alfred's ride closely, watching for any mishap.

It had all been working just fine before the horse picked up its pace. After a canter Alfred stumbled in the saddle and nearly fell off. The horse was well trained and stopped the moment it felt Alfred slip forward and grip onto its mane for support.

Ludwig and Gilbert quickly ran up to the horse, Gilbert taking the reins into his own hands to steady the horse from wandering while Ludwig quickly looked at the buckles and straps of the saddle. Ivan had been just as startled by Alfred's near tumble and jogged up toward them with worry for Alfred's fright.

The closer the Russian got the more he could see how shaken Alfred was. His hands were trembling while his fingers held their tangle in the beast's mane. His eyes were wide and startled, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.

Ivan had almost reached out and placed a comforting hand on the boy's thigh, but he refrained from touching any part of his legs. He knew Alfred didn't like anyone coming close to the stumps, much less looking at them and their lack of length. Instead, he asked, "Alfred, are you alright?"

Ivan was afraid Alfred would give up again. That he would demand to be taken off the horse and rolled back inside. He looked shaken, but when Ludwig finished tightening the straps he took a step back and asked Alfred to round the stallion again. To Ivan's surprise he watched Alfred scoot himself back into the saddle again. The straps around his hips were tightened once more and Gilbert gave up the reins.

This time around Alfred didn't slip. Ivan smiled at the sight. He could definitely tell Alfred was a rider. The way he handle the reins was excellent. The Russian could tell Alfred was doubtful about lack of leg commands, but the straps set in place to pull at the animal helped make up for the lack.

It had worked. And now Ivan wanted Alfred to ride into town with them.

The Russian sat with Mrs. Thatcher and her servant in the open wagon, keeping his eyes on Alfred whose horse was lagging behind slightly more than Ludwig's or Gilbert's. But the older German slowed his ride to match speeds with Alfred. The day was just starting out, there was no need to rush their journey.

It was nice to see the buzz of town. People going to and fro from homes and shops enacted a revived life in a nation coming out of hibernation. Ivan enjoyed the sight and eyed the bookstore and post office intently.

Turning around he watched Gilbert help Alfred tie his horse down before he and Ludwig began unstrapping the boy. The Russian noticed the stares, and he quite clearly understood that Alfred noticed as well, but the American opted to ignore those ghastly looks and focus on watching the German brothers help him out of the saddle.

One would think that after the Civil War the sight of amputees would become a common thing. Perhaps, but that did not stop the children from staring or the adults from looking away in disgust. After all the North had not been struck as fatal a blow as the South, and from the outlook of winning the war the Northern states did not see much of the devastation of those in their grand army.

Seeing a double amputee was one thing, but seeing said handicap veteran actually mounted and riding a horse was another. It was as if he had arrived strait from Barnum's circus and the audience was gathering.

The moment Alfred was pulled from the saddle and set into his traveled wheelchair the people minded their ways. Ivan didn't like it that Alfred kept his eyes down to his lap. The boy looked better with his head risen and eyes wandering to the things around. But Ivan understood; he knew Alfred was intimidated by their stares and quite quickly it was not a surprise in watching Alfred lay a blanket over his stunted legs to hide the fact of his missing limbs.

"Thank you kindly, Beilschmidts," Mrs. Thatcher praised with a clap of her hands to the brothers. "I trust the funds received was enough for your contraption?"

"Nein, it is fine," Ludwig spoke up. "Keep the saddle for free. It was a pleasure creating something for Alfred."

"Ja, it is a good thing to see him riding again," Gilbert said with a fond smile while turning to the boy who kept quiet, and kept his eyes down. "Now we're hoping his spirits will return sometime soon. It would be good to see."

Mrs. Thatcher nodded in agreement. But Alfred was left in Ivan's charge while everyone went off to their own business about town.

"It is a nice day," Ivan noted. "Would you mind staying here while I go mail these?" Ivan questioned. He had letters to return to his sisters and the postal station looked a bit crowded, much too crowded to fit a wheelchair in. Alfred said nothing and so Ivan took the silence as agreement.

The longer the day passed and the higher the sun arose in the sky the more lively the town became. More folk from isolated steads flocked in to replenish stocks and meet old friends after the long winter. The children ran back and forth on the streets, the horses neighed and carted their owners up and down the main road, and the pavilions were aroused with melody.

A particular tune, Yankee Doodle Dandy, Alfred's all-time favorite had burst into the air. The tune enticed him to follow it. He rolled himself down the wood walk, minding not to exit out onto the road—the road was still slightly moist with melting ice and Alfred didn't want to chance getting stuck in the mud.

From the walkway he could see the flutist and drummer. The fiddler simply sat and slapped his knees while his two bandsmen played the melody and evoked cheerful claps from the surrounding crowd. Alfred would have liked to join in with the crowd in clapping the band on with patriotism if his hands hadn't been so tightly gripping at the wool blanket over his legs. Those passing by stared Alfred back into insecurity and now all he wanted to do was return back to the homestead—at least there he was more isolated, away from eyes looking on him with pity as if he were some forgotten unfortunate soul.

When his eyes roamed toward the small children dancing around their mother's skirts he smiled. If there was one thing he missed the most it was his act of dancing. He'd give up the capability to walk and to ride if all he could do was dance.

The sound of high boots stopped right behind the veteran and when Alfred's wheelchair moved just slightly he understood that Ivan had returned. But the Russian remained quiet, keeping close and watching the small band strike up pleasant nostalgia in the town and roaming people. The band had played a number of three revolutionary hymns before they took a short break.

"You liked those tunes, didn't you?" Ivan inquired while he pulled the chair back from the edge of the walk way and then began pushing Alfred back down the board.

Alfred didn't say anything but Ivan was ever an observationist and had understood perfectly the feelings the amputee had felt. He especially noticed the boy's eyes on the playful children. The longing in those blue irises helped Ivan to understand just really what Alfred wanted.

On his way to the bookstore Ivan had stopped by the pharmacy. From what he understood from Mrs. Thatcher is that Alfred had one nasty sweet tooth. And if the progress recently was a show of anything then Ivan hoped the boy still had a knack for all things sugary.

"Oh, would you like some candy, Alfred?" Ivan asked, halting the chair near the entrance. The boy didn't say anything but Ivan decided to go and buy some for him anyway. "Stay here," he bade while walking into the store.

While the small stores weren't ideal to push a disabled veteran in with wheelchair and all, the outside offered challenges for the amputee as well, especially the sheer scene of bustling life. People were walking back and forth on the street, up and down the board walk, chatting, laughing, singing. Life in its rejuvenated finest was always seen around spring. This all reminded Alfred of the previous spring and of the same spirit he had lost after the wound that cut his service short.

"You just have too long of legs, George," came the giggle of a young maiden who amused herself with the frustration of the tailor trying to measure her betrothed. Alfred turned to the scene. The tailor shop was next to the pharmacy and even it seemed overflowing with costumers. The tailor taking measurements of the customers had been forced outside while the desk clerk inside was busy taking down orders for fabric.

"I do apologize, Sarah, but I'm afraid I have not stopped growing since the age of eleven." The man getting measured chuckled.

His fiancé giggled and looked at the tailor, saying, "Last spring he was an inch under. Let us hope he doesn't grow the more before the wedding."

"If it be then let it be," this George said while wrapping his arms around the smiling woman. "Then I shall dance with my wife ankles bare."

"You'd look like a fool," Sarah muttered with a pat to the man's hat.

"No more a fool from wanting to wed you," the young man mused with a devious smile that made the girl giggle.

A bag of candy plopped down onto Alfred's lap. He started out of his stare and looked down to the neatly wrapped sweets before looking up and noticing his Russian escort sucking on his own piece of candy. Ivan offered him a smile before noticing the tailor store next to them.

"Would you like some fitted clothing?" Ivan questioned. He smiled at the image conjured in his head. Alfred would look very nice in a sharp coat and dark pants. He's never seen Alfred in formal attire and the very thought evoked a need to see just that. "I could ask the tailor to measure you."

"No," Alfred spoke up. "Don't."

Ivan noticed Alfred clutching at the blanket over his stunted legs. The Russian understood. The tailor would measure his arm length, bust, waist, and pull back the blanket only to have his tape fall short of measuring the length of the boy's legs. Alfred didn't want to go through that and so Ivan pushed him along.

Mrs. Thatcher had remained in town until high noon after which her stocks were replenished and now called for the task of catering them back to her estate. The Beilschmidt brothers showed Ivan how to properly harness the saddle and correctly strap Alfred onto it while they remained in town at their shop. Ivan memorized everything and thanked them again for their services.

The ride back home was quiet. Alfred lagged behind like he had on the ride into town. With no one to be a close escort Ivan had to constantly turn in the wagon to keep an eye on him.

The concern weighed in when home was reached. Ivan went to unstrap Alfred from the saddle but was surprised to watch the boy steer the steed away and trot off.

"Alfred, where are you going?" Ivan called out. He couldn't keep up with him and could only watch the American distance himself from the home.

"It's still light outside," Mrs. Thatcher noted while she helped her servants usher in the stocks. "He'll be fine."

But Alfred couldn't get out of the saddle on his own, Ivan understood this. Even if the American managed that there was no way he could strap himself back in or even manage to make it back to the home. So Ivan swore to help Mrs. Thatcher with unloading before heading to the stables and saddling himself a horse to go looking for Alfred.

Alfred really was a good rider. It was a shame he thought the lack of legs hindered his skill with the horse. Ivan could clearly see his experience in maintaining the stallion as he approached the boy who was maneuvering in and out of the trees aligned next to the lake.

The American was taking his time, lost in his own thoughts. Ivan noticed his circular walk and so dismounted his horse and tied it to a tree. Ivan kept his distance and took out a pen and paper to write.

He hadn't noticed when Alfred looked up to see him nor when the boy suddenly unlatched himself from the saddle and fallen off the horse. But when Ivan looked up from his written words to suddenly see the chestnut stallion bare of a rider and Alfred collapsed in the greenery he dropped both pen and paper and darted toward him. He scolded himself for losing focus in his mission to oversee Alfred's safety but when he knelt down to the amputee he found himself baffled by the smile on Alfred's face. Especially the laughter that burst out after Ivan had rolled him over onto his back.

"You . . . you are laughing." Ivan was at a loss for words. He's never heard the American laugh, barely even saw him smile. What a pleasant sound to his ears.

"Yes, that would be the term," Alfred said with a chuckle. His eyes looked lighter, and the light smile on his lips made him look younger. Ivan wondered if laughter was all it took to de-age him. He looked beautiful in such youth.

"You're not hurt are you?" Ivan questioned. Falling off a horse could be damaging, and Alfred had slid right off.

Alfred sighed. His smile had left his lips and Ivan had wished he kept to his awed silence. He liked Alfred when he smiled. Now the American was pushing himself into a sitting position, his eyes falling to the sparkling blue lake—it illuminated his eyes perfectly and all Ivan wanted to do was drown in them.

"You're always concerning yourself with me," Alfred said. He sighed once more. The lull of the lake's waters cascading over its shore calmed the moment, and Alfred's own soul. He seemed more relaxed, but still in deep thought. "You don't have to."

When Ivan made no comment Alfred turned toward him curiously. Ivan was looking at him in silence. His eyes observing every movement, every feature and expression. Alfred scoffed.

"Why do you look at me like that?" the American asked. "I know you're a romanticist, but even poets and writers and artists need to come to terms on what is art and what is useless garbage."

"And why do you do that?" Ivan questioned. A poem bloomed in his heart and he felt the need to write it down so he wouldn't forget it. "My eyes are trained to find beauty, so it is no wonder why I cannot avert my gaze from your form."

Alfred didn't seem to like the compliment. He glanced down and away, self-conscious once more. "Perhaps it's you who needs to borrow my spectacles."

"Nyet, I see just finely," Ivan informed. Very finely and he was so glad to behold Alfred's unrevised beauty. He truly was a masterpiece, maimed or not.

Alfred sighed again. "You're the only one who thinks so. The others," Alfred was referring to the townsfolk, "they looked at me as you should."

Ivan shook his head. "It is they who are blind to the beauty of the world, and of the life it creates."

"Life didn't create this," Alfred muttered, his eyes falling into darker memories as he rubbed his thighs and then let his fingers slip down to the nubs where his calves would have been. "I did." It was he who knew the possible consequences of joining the army. He'd seen the dead, the limbless. He had never thought it would personally affect him . . . not when the war had almost been won.

"It illuminated the sun, shinning white while in the eyes it shines a light blue.

Oh I look for the vibrancy and am I disheartened to find it faded in hue.

No, let me see it, let me behold thy contempt for the world.

Let it take root, up grow, stretch wings, and unfurl.

I wish to see it soar.

I wish to see it more.

Will you show me just this once?

Before I unravel and come undone?

Before me right now have I beheld a beauty unseen by many

Of the likes there is none, no, not any.

In your heart there beats much doubt.

So keen to mistakes, so hurt by the stares of man and unspoken words of their mouth.

Help me to find a way to convince, to assure, to assist.

For if I cannot then I find myself amiss,

In a world that is blinded to true beauty and the freedom therein.

For love, and beauty, and peace, is a blessing, not to be thought of as a sin.

Would you help this longing soul find what it seeks in earnest?

For all my life I believe we have been worlds apart, touches just missed

Help assure my heart, my mind, my body, and my soul.

That there is beauty, so much beauty in the likes of you in this world."

Alfred had always been politely quiet when Ivan read his poetry to him, but he was struck with confusion when the Russian reached out in his recitation and pressed his cold hand to his cheek, lingering in the American's warmth while large fingers moved and carded through golden bangs. But Alfred did not move away, even when Ivan had finished his heart-felt poem and leaned close to him, pressing his lips to his, Alfred remained still in his bewilderment.

The kiss was a simple press of the lips, but it held for a good five seconds before Ivan pulled away. There was some embarrassment for the unexpected action but Ivan's smile still remained soft and his eyes ever looking into Alfred's own.

"Ah, forgive me," Ivan apologized softly. He pulled his hand away from Alfred's face and instead carded his own fingers through his sandy locks. "We poets tend to get too caught up in beauty. If I have caused any offense then do forgive me."

Alfred remained in shock and quiet in his confusion. Ivan just simply dismissed it all and took to the task of helping Alfred back onto the horse and buckling him in. Ivan then went on to lead Alfred's horse as well as his own back to the stables.

Nothing else was said of what had happened and when Alfred settled in for the night he rose his hand, his tanned fingers touching the place on his lips where Ivan had pressed his own against. Oddly enough it wasn't Ivan giving him a kiss that troubled the American, it was the Russian going about his daily business as if it had never happened that upset the boy.

But the boy could not settle this unspoken issue if he, himself, didn't give voice and speak. And so, after days of remaining in usual silence, Alfred finally initiated a conversation—asked a question that needed answering.

"Back by the lake . . . why did you kiss me, Ivan?" Alfred was currently out in the vegetable garden, watching the Russian who was assisting in Mrs. Thatcher's chores and fertilizing the plants himself. Usually, wherever Ivan went so too did Alfred, if only because the Russian would push him along without a say in the matter but simply to get better sun.

Ivan was currently lathering the new soil around, mixing in the fertilizer before Alfred asked this. He stopped and wiped his gloved hands. Looking at the boy who had a ripe looking squash settled in his lap.

"I told you I was sorry for doing that," Ivan explained. The Russian was concerned that that instance had been the reason Alfred's been unusually quiet and lost in his thoughts more than usual lately.

Alfred sighed. That clearly wasn't the response he wanted. "But why did you do it?"

Ivan placed the garden tools back in the basket near his feet and took of his gloves. He came closer to Alfred, knelt down so he could chance to look him in the eyes—that is if the boy would look at him and not the sizable squash in his lap.

"I was caught up in a muse," Ivan explained gently. He hoped to evade any offense he might have caused the American. "Artists may do unforeseen things when engulfed with such emotion. Even things they themselves would never do."

"So then you would have never kissed me under normal circumstances?" Alfred inquired. His eyes looked away from the ripening squash seated on him to take a quick glance at Ivan. His gaze fell back as quickly as it as rose.

Ivan sighed gently. "Not unless you would allow me to," he answered. This answer had caught Alfred by surprise. Wide blue eyes turned up to look into deep amethyst irises.

"You would want to kiss me again?" Alfred asked. No one wanted to be that close to him. So why Ivan of all people? Was this simply for the sake of inspiration?

Alfred's eyes glanced down when Ivan placed a gentle hand atop his own resting on the armrest of the wheelchair. When he looked back up the Russian looked so sure, so certain, but Alfred was frightened and trembling.

"Da," Ivan answered gently.

"Why?" Alfred asked. He wanted the truth. What was he to Ivan? Why was the Russian so fixated on a broken piece of fine pottery?

The hand lain atop his own now clenched and held tightly. Alfred glanced down at it, no longer able to look the Russian in the eyes.

"You are not unwanted, Alfred," Ivan answered. "Every man, woman, and child on this planet are meant to be cherished and loved no matter what condition they retain." The Russian's smiles were nice and Alfred always felt he too should smile with him at times. "I've come to learn in my journey for looking for the desolate and depraved that there are some that can never be such. You are one such being, Alfred." Ivan chuckled shyly before glancing away. "It is a little hard to explain in English words and even my own language, this why I could only speak through poetry. Forgive me if I brought you confusion."

With another sigh Ivan rubbed Alfred's hand. He frowned in his thoughts before looking up at the American again. "The reason why I want to kiss you is so I can come to understand just why I do," Ivan admitted. Even he didn't understand the pulls of his body, but he acknowledged it.

"Then kiss me," Alfred so gave permission. Their eyes met and Ivan looked astonished by Alfred's response. "Because I want to understand why as well."

Ivan seemed taken aback by Alfred's stance, but not for long. He leaned closer until Alfred bit his lip and bowed his head. He was still too self-conscious and could not look at Ivan like how he wanted him to.

But the Russian did not reprimand Alfred for this. Instead he lifted his hand and pinched Alfred's chin, making him look up at him. A smooth rub from the thumb helped Alfred's teeth let go of his bottom lip. Ivan smiled in gratitude over Alfred's calm and then leaned in more.

Alfred's heart hammered into his ears, deafening him to the sounds around when Ivan's lips pressed over his own again. His eyes fluttered shut on their own accord and his face grew hot with all of the blood pumping rapidly in his veins.

The kiss was shorter than the first one, but when Ivan pulled away he smiled at Alfred's expression. The American's eyes seemed dazed, but focused, there was even an excited gleam in them that the Russian wondered if Alfred was aware of. The flush was washed beautifully with the boy's tanned color. He looked utterly innocent in that moment, so pure and untouched. And all Ivan wanted to do was touch him. So he did.

Ivan caressed the American's cheek again and leaned in. He kissed him for the third time. It was easy to tell Alfred didn't have much experience in this sort of show of affection—Ivan was probably his first kiss as well. But Ivan didn't mind, in fact he reveled in the knowledge of being Alfred's first. He would have no other.

Ivan smiled when he felt the younger press back into the kiss, trying to return the pressure to his best ability. Ivan relented on his own guide and allowed Alfred to explore himself. The boy reached up, lightly clenched into the Russian's shirt as if unsure of what to hold onto. Ivan grasped his hands and placed them against his neck and jaw, showing the younger that he could touch him back.

Alfred held onto Ivan like this and continued to kiss him until he could live with breath no more. He pulled away, his face still as red as the ripening tomatoes near them. Those blue eyes of his seemed so bright and contrasted perfectly against the redness of his flushed skin, but they would not look at Ivan, the embarrassment rode over the American's senses.

No, there was nothing wrong with this. There was nothing wrong with Alfred. So Ivan pulled him close once more and kissed him again. It was easily told that Alfred hadn't expected this and simply fumbled in the kiss until Ivan's lips moved so gently, so smoothly that he guided Alfred along and showed him how to properly give such passionate displays of affection.

Alfred learned quickly. He was moving in time sooner than Ivan had expected. Those strong hands of his fisted into the fabric of his shirt again, pulling and pulling until the Russian was nearly leant over the wheelchair and pressed down on the amputee.

Ivan was unamused with the wheelchair. It was obviously in the way and all Ivan wanted to do was to wrap his arms around the boy, pull him close to his chest so that he may feel the thumping of the American's heartbeat. But Ivan was in a way glad for the hindrance, because he wanted to do so many more things, things he wouldn't think too polite in a time as delicate such as this.

Ivan's pale fingers rubbed up the warm tanned length of Alfred's neck, enjoying the way it arched when Ivan pressed his mouth harder onto the American's. Every time their lips separated in a moment Ivan could hear Alfred quickly inhaling what breath he could before Ivan pressed close again and took his breath away. When Ivan's hand rubbed that strong jaw it slacked, leaving Alfred's lips to part and now Ivan pressed his tongue inside.

It may have been too bold for a tender moment like that, but Ivan could not go back. He moaned at the taste of the boy. Alfred still had a lot to offer the world . . . to offer Ivan, and the Russian wanted every piece of him.

When Ivan finally pulled back a string of saliva connected their mouths, but when Ivan's thumb brushed over Alfred's lips the line was cut. The American's face was truly an inspiring sight to behold. His eyes were still closed, brows furrowed, and lips parted now plump and swollen. Ivan wanted to kiss him again for looking so promising, but he refrained and instead caressed the veteran's face until those trembling eyes opened and looked up at him.

Ivan tried to assure him of his feelings through his gaze, but often wondered if Alfred could read him as much as he could the American.

Ivan, himself, wasn't sure what to call the two of them. He would like to say lovers, but that was such a strong statement that seemed to hold more passion than what was passed between he and Alfred. Ivan knew, after being given permission to kiss the American in the gardens, that he felt something strong for the boy. He first had assumed Alfred to be some incarnate form of a muse, a source of deep inspiration, but he felt now it was something more, something much more promising and exciting.

The two would share secret kisses in the privacy of their rooms and when no one had eyes upon them; in the gardens, near the lake, amongst the apple trees. And Ivan had never wrote so much passionate words in his life, each one he shared with the being that made his heart hammer inside his chest.

"Even from so close I feel we are so apart. Just an arm's reach, a finger's brush.

The beauty in your features entice my heart to hammer and my words to stammer.

This feeling continues to build and anticipate until you look at me.

And then I am calm and my soul does settle.

For I know you will let me touch you, you will let me hold you, you will let me kiss you.

And I am content in this."

Alfred's flush was just as beautiful as before. He has seemed to maintain its color to a soft pink painting on his cheeks this time, but when his eyes would glance toward the Russian seated near him—whether it be in the sunlight of the lounge room, or the small flickering candlelight on the American's lampstand—a deeper color would emerge and his eyes would glance down, a book or a paper covering his lips to conceal his shy sweet smile.

Today Ivan was sitting in Alfred's bedroom. It was late, much too late for any tenant or servant to be up. But he and Alfred tended to return to sleep in later hours and so one final poem was due before Ivan would bid Alfred farewell and with a kiss leave the boy to his dreams.

The two had long since passed the need to verbally ask for a kiss, as well as past the awkward glances and embarrassed flushes. Now, it was a need to be done. And as Alfred pulled the book down from his lips he quickly pushed it aside and leaned over, his movement calling to Ivan who placed his poem down on the lampstand next to the shrinking candle and pressed against Alfred himself.

Alfred was more confidant now and more certain on where to place his hands when he needed to hold onto Ivan. Right now one hand had its fingers tangled into the Russian's hair and the other cupping the back of his neck, pressing him down upon him as they kissed. Ivan was usually more polite with his hands, but this night those devious things wandered, one now was rubbing Alfred's shoulder while the other slid down, rubbing the boy's back and on its ascent back up to the neck it pulled Alfred's loose night shirt up with it and the heat of that tanned skin paused the wandering hand and enticed it to rub down again, palm now pressed flat against fine bare shoulder blades.

Alfred had not pulled Ivan any closer, but in that moment the Russian wanted to be. So he leant over the bedframe more, one knee dipping down onto the mattress where Alfred's legs would have been. His press made Alfred lean backwards with his own back sinking now into the springy mattress as the larger male bore over top of him.

Alfred did protest nothing, simply kept his mouth on Ivan's and moved with his lips. However, it was the poet who had pulled himself away when his hand had receded down toward Alfred's bare waist. When he leaned back he noticed the confused look on Alfred's face, and when Ivan altogether moved off of the bed and straightened his petticoat Alfred leaned up on his arms, looking on in concern.

"What have I done wrong?" Alfred questioned. Of course the American would always assume he was the one to blame for misfortunes when in fact Ivan found no fault in him, absolutely none. Which made it so hard for Ivan to fall away from.

"Nothing," Ivan assured. When he turned and noticed the unsure look in Alfred's eyes, the doubt that Ivan had been so hard to vanquish, he pressed close one more time and kissed the boy's forehead. "Nothing you could do would ever deface the perfection which you are incarnate. Rest your head and wait for the morrow. I will dream of you, will you dream of me?"

Alfred smiled and nodded his head while he settled into his pillows and sheets. Ivan smiled in return. "Then I bid you do svidaniya, moi bit serdtsa."

When Ivan returned to his room he didn't sleep. Instead he wrote the desires of his heart down. He was concerned with what he read on the endless mass of papers. But every word was beautiful and every one true.

He wanted Alfred as his own.

Ivan's passion ran deep. Deeper than he had thought it would for the American. Never before had he drawn this close to a source of inspiration, but he could not deny that he was glad it was someone as beautiful and awe inspiring as Alfred.

Ivan Braginsky had always been a picky man, denying all suitors sent to him by family and friends. They did not have what his heart sought for. And for a poet it was a high level of beauty.

Who knew he would find such beauty in an American amputee?


	5. The Poet Falls In love Again

Alfred was certainly in a class all his own. His recovery had been a long time coming but it was showing. He wouldn't stare into nothing anymore. Instead he would look to Ivan; to read him a poem, to play him a tune, to take him out in the gardens or by the lake, to ride the stallions with him.

The home was much more brighter with Alfred F. Jones smiling again. He truly was the embodiment of the sun its self.

It had been a full year since he had lost his legs but one could hardly tell of the trauma he had once faced. He'd roll himself around the home, often assisted the servants in what he could. His parents had been informed of this, but were asked to remain away until permanent clarity was announced.

But it was close, so very close. Alfred was almost all healed up. And so a special treat was to be in order when the boy's twentieth birthday came around.

"Happy birthday, Alfred!"

Ivan had just rolled the veteran into the home after a trip into town to mail letters when the entire homestead burst out into loud cheers and claps. Alfred was thoroughly surprised and the wide smile forming on his face warmed everyone's hearts.

Mrs. Thatcher had baked the cake while every tenant and servant had bought or made a present. Alfred was overburden with them and could not say the words, "thank you," enough.

It was a warm July's day and the evening party was taken to the lake. Blankets were set out on the green and some even took to swimming in the cool waters of the blue lake. Many came from in town as well, not just to celebrate the day the country declared independence but a young man's birthday.

Alfred was on the verge of celebrating the nation's birthday when he noticed that all were focused on celebrating his own as if he were the more important of the two. It made him feel appreciated, it made him feel wanted, and it made him feel at home. Alfred really couldn't imagine going back to his parent's home because everyone he's come to live with in Mrs. Thatcher's estate have become his family.

"How about you ride around the lake with me?" Ivan asked, looking down at the American seated on the blanket currently stuffing his face with good fattening foods. Alfred turned to him with a smile and Ivan felt himself falling for him all the more.

Alfred's self-consciousness of being carried had waned, if only it was Ivan who would hold him. This was seen in the way Alfred held his arms up to signal Ivan to pick him up. Ivan did, giving the boy a kiss when no one was looking when he hefted him up into his arms.

They placed Alfred's saddle on a tame mare and strapped him on. Ivan was next to mount the horse beside. Now the two bade the party off and took to strolling around the lake. They had just passed around it when a light flew up into the sky.

Its red color illuminated the glass on Alfred's frames. He smiled at the sight before it burst in the clear night sky above. Ivan enjoyed the United States' tradition of celebrating the fourth of July with an explosion of fireworks. It certainly was a memorable national holiday.

But what made it all the more perfect is that it seemed the flashy show was just for Alfred on his birthday. When Ivan turned to Alfred with a soft smile he expected the same to be seen of the boy, but all pleasant thoughts vanished when he saw Alfred hunched over in the saddle, one hand gripping the mane of the horse while the other pulled at his pant leg that had been rolled and clipped tight to hold the empty space close to the stub.

"Alfred!" Ivan gasped. He jumped off of his ride and dashed over toward the younger. The blond was shaking, his eyes wide and mouth open in a silent cry. "Alfred, Alfred, what's wrong? Alfred!" Ivan placed his hands on the American. Just feeling the veteran shake so much frightened Ivan and so he set to work with unstrapping him from the saddle.

In Ivan's hurry he snapped a buckle off too soon and the horse didn't seem to like that. The mare huffed, moving back away from Ivan's searching hands and then forward. The sounds made Alfred's frame shake even more and it was then Ivan knew what was wrong.

The explosions bursting into the skies, the horse moving and huffing. The sounds were all too familiar to the veteran and his shot nerves have not recovered enough to handle the memories they invoked.

"Alfred?" That sounded like Mrs. Thatcher and the others. Ivan heard the moment they realized what was happening to him. He could hear the old woman approaching while giving orders to her servants to cease the rockets.

Ivan had just pulled Alfred from the horse and sat him down, holding him close as the American hyperventilated. Mrs. Thatcher placed her hands on Alfred, feeling him shake. She looked so worried and just as soon the others came around to be certain nothing became of the young soldier.

"Give him some space," Mrs. Thatcher bade, shooing the people back. She let Ivan hold him. She let the Russian hold him until he calmed to some extent. After the episode Alfred slumped in Ivan's arms, awake but near lost in his mind.

The day had started out perfect and ended with the means to finish a perfect evening, but nothing ever goes as planned. The next day Ivan had visited Alfred early. He gave him breakfast on a tray and after he was finished said, "We're all very sorry, Alfred. We didn't mean to make . . ." Ivan sighed. Alfred would not move too much, he simply laid on his side, an arm propped under his head while his other reached down, rubbing his thighs.

There really wasn't much one can say to a soldier who had been reminded of the tragedies of war still lingering in his mind. So Ivan leaned over the American and kissed him against his temple. The Russian bid him farewell and gave him his space.

There hadn't come a chance to goad Alfred outside until a star shower began falling during the nights. Ivan loved astrology and enjoyed sitting out on the porch watching them. It had been the third night and his heart ached for a companion, a bright-eyed, golden-haired youth.

"I am tired, Ivan. Please take me back inside," Alfred asked softly while the Russian pushed him through a bumpy terrain toward the lake. It was late and Alfred hadn't been feeling well since the night of his birthday. With Ivan's insistence he was rushed out of his bed and onto his wheelchair. Now there he was, coming to the shore of the lake.

"You'll like this, I know you will," Ivan assured as he parked Alfred right at the base of the shoreline. He stood next to him and knelt down, pointing toward the dark waters of the calm lake. "Watch the lake, Alfred."

The American did. He watched it for about three entire minutes before he about turned to Ivan with a sigh and once again demand he be returned to his room. But right before he had he noticed a light shoot across the waters of the lake. Alfred's dull blue eyes lit up as another whizzed across and then another until the entire expanse of the waters reflected perfectly the show in the sky.

Tilting his head back the American watched the sky. His eyes were wide, watching the magnificent fall of the stars. Ivan did not watch the shower though, his eyes beheld Alfred's fascination and relaxation. The younger enjoyed this very much.

Ivan was glad. He was glad because Alfred was calming down, his eyes were opening with wonder and lips parting in awe. Those blue eyes beheld the falling stars until most faded. When he turned to Ivan the Russian made sure to smile for him, hoping he would smile in return. Alfred did and Ivan leaned in to him, pressing his forehead against Alfred's and swimming in contentment.

The showers lasted for about a week and Ivan took Alfred out every night until they saw no more stars tumble down the blackness of the skies above. He'd bring a blanket and at times a basket of snacks to treat themselves to. They would settle down on the shore line and often times just lay back, watching the stars fall away and constellations shine bright.

"When I was a little kid I used to know all their names," Alfred spoke up, tracing his fingers around the shining stars above. He stargazed with his glasses off, which surprised Ivan seeing how he believed him to be near blind without the spectacles.

Ivan looked at the American lain next to him on the borrowed blanket. "Do you still remember?"

"I do," Alfred said. He sighed, letting his hands fall to his chest in relaxation. "But it's too late for me to spout them all out now." A moment of silence passed before Alfred turned toward Ivan, a smile on his lips that the Russian enjoyed seeing. "Thank you for all of this, Ivan."

"Da, you are welcome," Ivan responded kindly. "I am glad you are feeling better. Again, we meant no harm in what happened."

Alfred frowned at the memory of his twentieth birthday. "I know it wasn't any of your fault. I didn't expect it myself . . . it all came on so fast that I . . . I'm sorry I worried everyone."

"As long as you are able to laugh and smile again then we will be happy," Ivan said softly, letting his hand come up and comb through golden strands of hair. He missed this. He missed Alfred.

"Ivan?" Alfred's tone was barely above a whisper. When Ivan opened his eyes he saw bright blue eyes looking into his own. He could never stop gazing into those gems. They were simply too beautiful for any human to bare—and yet Alfred did.

"Da?" Ivan lowered his own tone. He enjoyed silent communication. He knew he and Alfred were close to achieving just that. It was a good sign of the progress of their relationship.

"Can you kiss me?" Alfred asked.

Ivan's smile broadened and his heart melted on spot. He reached up, cupping Alfred's face and caressing his cheeks with his thumbs. "Of course," Ivan replied just as he pulled Alfred closer and leaned in himself.

The kiss was gentle matching the night around and Alfred clung tight to the Russian, both laying in the other's arms not caring for the lateness of the hour. After their lips detached Alfred nuzzled his face into Ivan's neck, inhaling his scent and relaxing in his arms.

The sloshing of the lake drew Alfred's attention and his chuckle tickled the skin on Ivan's neck. "When I was younger I used to swim all the time on warm nights like these." Ivan felt Alfred's fingers curl into his petticoat. "What I wouldn't give to dip my toes in the water again."

Ivan grinned and made sure his arms were secure around the American's back for what he was about to do next. "Then why not do just that?"

Alfred started when Ivan picked him up and moved toward the lake waters. The American's eyes widened. "What? No! No, Ivan, I can't, not anym—!" It was too late, Ivan had simply dumped Alfred over into the waters of the lake.

Arms flailed and soon a soaking wet American popped his head out of the waters. He coughed to regain some lost air before pushing his bangs out of his face and glaring at the laughing Russian. "You bastard!" Alfred spat. "What if I had drowned?!"

Ivan simply crossed his arms, grinning in amusement. "You seem to know how to float just fine." Ivan had a feeling that Alfred knew how to swim. He was glad because so did he.

Losing one's legs hindered swimming to a certain degree, but other than that Alfred was still able to make it to shallow waters. Just when his hands dug into the soft sands of the shore Ivan had already taken off his coat and vest and shoes, rolled up his sleeves and pants, and slid into the water, hooking Alfred as he rushed in.

The American protested, especially when they ventured into deeper waters. Alfred clung to Ivan, not wanting to risk losing control of the swim and drowning, but Ivan believed in the American and pushed him away to let him know this.

"You are fine," Ivan assured, letting go of the boy and watching him closely just in case. "You see? You can swim if you try."

Ivan was right and all Alfred had to do was believe in himself a little. But he was still upset with the Russian. He hadn't even asked for permission to just dump him into the lake. Alfred was still overly dressed for a nightly swim and he wasn't happy with the fact that he'd be dripping wet when they returned to their rooms.

"I hope you catch pneumonia," Alfred muttered, sloshing water at the Russian.

Ivan turned his head to dodge the wave and instantly swished some water toward Alfred. The American gasped but laughed and did another one. This time Ivan swam through it and reached out, his arms wrapping around Alfred's waist and pulling him close. The amputee squealed and giggled, continually swishing water at Ivan to let him go.

"You have such a beautiful laugh, Alfred," Ivan said, immediately settling their situation with a compliment.

Alfred gave one last splash to Ivan's face just to see his bangs stick to his eyes. He giggled and then sighed. "You seem to refer to me like a girl a lot."

"Nyet, I know very well which sex you are," Ivan said while he pushed his bangs out of his face and then rubbed his jaw on Alfred's shoulder, pressing the boy's back into his chest. "Forgive me if I say anything that you assume refers to you as the gentler vessel. I am merely trying to express my feelings through the best word I can find in the English language."

Alfred chuckled. "And what are you feelings?" His hands fell down onto the larger hands clasped together over his stomach. He held them there, wanting to know.

Ivan sighed softly. When he turned the American around in his arms so that he may look into those wide blue eyes of his the stars above caught in their hue and Ivan found himself simply . . . falling in love.

Ivan rose one of his hands, keeping his other arm wrapped securely around the American for support. His palm pressed against Alfred's cheek—still so warm even in the cool waters. His fingers pushed back the silky bangs behind Alfred's ear just as Ivan began to speak.

"I feel a lot of things," Ivan answered Alfred's question. "But only with you have I felt so many at once." There was a pause, just for Ivan to take in the beauty in his arms and listen to all of the sounds of the night. All was clear, all was perfect. "I want to hold you in my arms even if you hate it . . . because there I know I can protect you. I want to lay down beside you and count every single star together; the contentment of such a thought is overwhelming. I want to cup your face and trace every couture, memorizing all of the perfection that you are. I want to press you close to me and kiss your lips until the world falls apart. I want to touch you . . . everywhere . . . I want to feel your warm body beneath mine. I—!"

Ivan had been cut from his poetic confession by Alfred pressing closer and smashing his lips into Ivan's. The Russian had stumbled in the kiss, but easily caught himself and regained control. His hands pulled Alfred closer than he already was, now rubbing up and down the younger's spine, resting on hips and grasping thighs.

When Ivan pulled his lips away and began kissing Alfred's neck the boy let out a gasp. His fingers reached up and tangled into Ivan's lighter locks. He made no protest, and the sounds leaving his mouth encouraged Ivan to continue.

Ivan would ask for forgiveness later when his mouth wasn't currently occupied with a task at hand, but he could not ask permission to let his hands roam up Alfred's bare back after slipping in through a billowed shirt now loose with the flowing water. Ivan moaned at Alfred's warmth, even more so at his willingness.

One hand pressed against Alfred's back while the other fell onto his thigh, pressing it against Ivan's hip while they attempted to kiss the other's breath away. When Ivan wrapped his arm back around Alfred's waist he let his other hand rise, skimming up the boy's chest. Ivan shivered at the feel of muscle underneath the padding of his palm and fingers.

The Russian pulled his lips away from Alfred's, looking into those blue eyes as their breaths mixed heatedly. Ivan's hand had stopped to press over a pectoral, his thumb rubbing Alfred's nipple slowly. Ivan's eyes darkened when Alfred's own hue deepened and the American shivered until his eyes closed and head leaned forward, resting forehead against Ivan's shoulder.

Ivan turned and kissed his neck once more, enjoying the feeling of Alfred's strong arms wrapping around his shoulders while his other hand trailed up Alfred's torso as well, his fingers playing with the other nipple. Ivan ended in closing his eyes as well when he felt Alfred turn his head and begin pressing kisses to the side of his neck, his jaw, and his ear. The poet shook with need and he knew that if Alfred didn't stop, that if he didn't push away then Ivan, himself, wouldn't be able to hold back.

But Ivan was caught up in his emotions, and a poet ever rarely denies the expressions of his heart.

Ivan rose his hands again, pushing the wet shirt above Alfred's head. He ignored the article of clothing and let it float in the ripples of the lake waters. Ivan's hands rose easier without the constricting garment stuck to Alfred's skin with moisture.

His right hand slid up, pressing against Alfred's collarbone before his fingers slipped up further, curving around the boy's neck and laying there. Alfred had been watching him while he did this, those blue eyes of his held Ivan's violet gaze. The American's plump lips were parted, red and swollen from Ivan's ministrations.

This was Alfred's chance, Ivan was relaying this message through their eye contact; the younger could pull away, he could splash water at him, he could slap him, anything to push away and silently tell him he didn't want this. But Alfred did the exact opposite. He cupped Ivan's jaw and leaned forward, rubbing his nose with Ivan's in his descent onto his lips once more. The Russian wasn't sure if he was dismayed or delighted in the American's decision.

But Ivan did wrap his arms around the boy for a securer hold. Alfred's own arms wrapped around his neck held as well and now Ivan moved. Back to shallow waters he stumbled, the weight of the waters clinging to their clothing pressed them down. Their bodied hit the waters again and the soft bed bellow near the shoreline. They did not move again and with his hands Ivan kept Alfred's head above the water, his mouth upon his while his body pressed the American's into the soft dirt of the shallows.

When Ivan ground his hips into Alfred's he thought for certain he'd frighten his young lover away, but Alfred continued to cling to him, to pull his mouth down onto his and press himself against him in return. Ivan groaned into Alfred's mouth at his movements. His eyes fluttered when Alfred released his hold around his neck instead taking Ivan's lead and sliding his hands up the Russian's back to feel muscle and skin.

Ivan dunked his head and pulled the sticky shirt off of himself, tossing it to the side of the shoreline. He watched Alfred attentively now. The boy's eyes beheld Ivan's chest for the first time and just seeing the American move his hands from his back around to his chest so that he may feel the firmness of his sternum made Ivan shiver and he reached forward and took those hands in his, bringing both to his mouth to kiss.

The way Alfred's eyes sparkled like the ever wide ocean made Ivan melt into him. Just to have the American lain out underneath him was more than Ivan would possibly ask for. So he touched him, caressed him, and kissed him.

"Ah!" Alfred had gasped when Ivan rolled into his hips this time. The poet ground his pelvis into the younger now feeling the reason for Alfred's sensitivity.

Ivan leaned away, his arms on either side of Alfred's head as he lay there half immersed in the shallow waters of the lake. Ivan had never had a lover stare as him so much, as if he was a beauty all of his own. The Russian smiled endearingly down at Alfred and when he lifted a hand to caress the boy's cheek Ivan watched Alfred turn his face into the palm and pepper a little kiss onto the skin.

The warm breath Ivan felt on his digits moved him and when Alfred finally opened his eyes and looked at him again the poet had lost himself. Ivan wrapped his arms around Alfred and held him flush against himself. The next thing he did was lay the boy down on the blanket they had lounged on. Alfred never took his eyes off of him.

Ivan became slower now. His hands slid down mindful of each curve, of each dip, and of each tone. When the tips of his fingers brushed against the fabric of Alfred's pants he looked up at the boy. Alfred had been silently watching him and now in Ivan's moment of hesitation the poet watched the American lean up on his elbows, and stare at his hands, letting him know he was monitoring everything.

But Ivan had no resistance. Not when his hands grabbed Alfred's belt, not even when he unbuckled the leather strap and opened the younger's pants. Slowly he slid his hand inside and when he touched Alfred for the first time the American closed his eyes and leaned back against the blanket, a drawn out sigh leaving his lips.

Ivan rubbed him softly, barely even gripping him. It was when he felt Alfred push his hips up into his palm did Ivan feel it was the right time to apply pressure. Just hearing the American's breath hitch when Ivan gripped him and produced a single pump . . . it made the poet's heart race.

Ivan leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Alfred's while he rolled his wrist, stroking the boy. He closed his eyes at hearing those humming moans. Feeling Alfred's hot breath against his cheek was intoxicating.

When Ivan pressed a kiss to those sealed lips his hips pushed against Alfred's, the pressure causing an opened mouthed moan to slip out between Ivan's teeth. The Russian ate up every sound the younger was making.

The quicker the breaths became that was when Ivan knew Alfred was close. He inhaled a good many of those warm breaths before pulling away, his dark eyes looking into Alfred's dark gaze. When their stares locked Ivan deliberately squeezed the boy's penis harder. The way Alfred's mouth rounded into the form of a perfectly scrolled "O" was a heavenly sight, especially when those eyelids fluttered.

As Ivan finally pulled the boy's manhood out into the open air there wasn't any sign of discomfort from the one underneath him, not with the way the poet's hand squeezed the American. The touch from Alfred's hands pulled Ivan's gaze down to see those shaking hands holding onto the hand that stroked the shaft. They squeezed Ivan's wrist, not pulling, but pressing in an urge he finish him off.

And Ivan held him still. He held him firmly in his grip as he gently pushed those strong hands of Alfred's away, giving him room to lean his head over and wrap his lips around the cockhead. Immediately Alfred's hands slapped against the Russian's cheeks and his hips bucked, pushing more of the erection into a chillingly skilled orifice.

Ivan could hear the unsteady rhythm of Alfred's breathing. The boy kept sucking in breaths as if to catch and steady his rapidly beating heart, but hardly an exhale was heard. So Ivan began taking more of the throbbing organ into his mouth. He closed his eyes, simply listening to every sound Alfred made.

Ivan had wanted to finish Alfred in his mouth. He wanted to taste him, knowing he'd forever remember it upon his tongue. He was certain the experience would wipe away the taste of every previous lover that left him dissatisfied in the end. But Ivan was disappointed.

He widened his mouth when Alfred's penis swelled, a sure sign he was ready to release. Ivan had even slacked his throat to swallow everything in, but Alfred's hands had returned, pushing at his face and forcing the American's cock to slip out of the Russian's throat. Alfred reached between his legs when he turned onto his side and Ivan watched down with sadness as the boy's white warm juices squirted out onto the blanket underneath them.

Alfred's face was an aroused red, his eyes clenched shut tightly as his hands rubbed his softening cock while it released to last of its essence onto the blanket underneath. When the shudders stopped those blue eyes fluttered, the lids opening before they turned to gaze out of the corner up toward Ivan. Alfred was extremely embarrassed.

Ivan didn't want the boy to be ashamed of anything. He reached down, slipped his hand over the round muscle of Alfred's thigh before guiding his fingers down, hooking and then pulling. Ivan twisted Alfred's hips back toward him, spreading those thighs and looking at him. Alfred was no longer looking at him like the curious young adult he had been before, and Ivan missed those blue eyes.

So when Ivan leaned down and took up the limp cock in his mouth again he meant to rouse a reaction out of the younger. He did. Tightly gripping fingers tangled into his hair and the feeling of Alfred's strong thighs press against his ears. He didn't concern those discomforts, but solely focused on the way Alfred's hips began rolling into his mouth the way Ivan wanted them to, especially the cock hardening against his tongue.

"I-Ivan, ah!" Alfred's voice sounded like that of an angel's. Ivan moaned around the cock at the sound of it, making the boy buck into his mouth harder.

Finally Ivan deemed him teased enough. He pulled his mouth away, relishing the faint taste of cum in his mouth, his tongue lapping at it all the more as it slid over his lips. The Russian enjoyed watching the flush cascade over Alfred's face deeper in shade this time now that the younger male had been caught watching Ivan tantalizingly lick his lips from the taste of him.

Ivan certainly didn't let Alfred's sudden embarrassment quell the need for his lips to trace the boy's body. No, not at all. Ivan leaned down, leaning on his elbows as he bent his neck and began kissing Alfred's neck, his lips quite enjoying the feel of those hard pulsing swallows before nipping downward on the collarbone.

The poet descended further. Songs and words arising in his mind as he took care of the giving body underneath him. Oh, Ivan could write a hymn just by touching the American so intimately.

When Ivan pressed his lips to Alfred's pelvis the younger tried to keep his hips to himself, but ended up bucking into the Russian. Ivan simply smiled and then leaned down further, letting his nose rub and softly nuzzle the aroused cock standing high and hot into the air. Alfred's thighs moved when Ivan's hot breath cascaded over the sensitive skin on the penis, but that cool breath only shifted and now drifted over thighs.

Ivan minded when Alfred froze. The American understood that Ivan was looking at his legs—or what was left of them. Only the thighs remained. The kneecaps on down were gone and Alfred . . . he didn't want anyone to see.

Yet Ivan reached forward, his fingers slipping into the hem of the pants and slowly tugging the fabric down, keeping his eyes on the task at hand. He waited for any sign of discomfort. He could already feel it in Alfred as inch by inch his thighs were revealed to Ivan. But the Russian didn't want to stop.

Instead he leaned down and kissed the bare skin as it was revealed and when the pants fell away from the stubs and it was time for Ivan to look at them, his eyes turned back up to Alfred. To his surprise the younger was looking down at him. A look of sadness in his eyes while Ivan's fingers slowly traced over the bumpy skin that had been messily sewn together when the limbs were hacked off. Ivan's lips pressed onto the tender flesh when the warmth of his fingers fell away and Alfred trembled.

Beautiful, Alfred F. Jones was simply beautiful, and Ivan was determined to make him see that tonight.

Ivan said not a word, but simply expressed his feelings through touch. He was gentle and mindful of all the scars, especially the ones on the legs. But Ivan wanted to trace them, to memorize every curve and turn, so he ignored the way Alfred trembled underneath him until he told him to stop . . . and the American never did.

Ivan leaned forward again, placing a kiss to the side of the hardening shaft next to him. He was glad to know the boy was still aroused. So he let his cool breath wash over the hot pulsing organ for a moment before turning again and leaning down further to place a kiss on Alfred's thigh again, his fingers gently rubbing the ends where they had been cut.

When Ivan sucked Alfred again he was delighted to feel and see the way the American's thighs parted to give him better access for both his hands and his mouth. Pulling his lips away the Russian looked down at the spread legs and then reached down, rubbing in-between. His eyes looked up to take in the American's expression when he noticed Alfred had been glancing his way. The moment their gazes met those blue eyes closed and Alfred turned his head again.

Ivan understood and he took his time. The night was young and he didn't plan on stopping his exploration of the boy's body.

As Ivan leaned back a little he ran his fingers through his hair to catch the moisture of the water still soaking his locks. From there he reached down and carefully rubbed Alfred's puckered hole. He watched him for reactions and noticed the American opening his eyes and looking up at him again. Still Alfred made no protest and so Ivan continued to rub, in all the crevices he rubbed until he slipped the tip of his finger past the boy's anal muscle.

In his descent Ivan continued to stroke Alfred so to ease the penetration. The American was good in keeping to himself and made no noise or motion against Ivan's single finger entering him, but by the way those tanned lips twitched Ivan could tell he wasn't too fond of that finger wiggling inside him, searching for something. Ivan sighed when he couldn't find it with the digit and so made to press another finger inside.

Alfred's frown was dually noted. Yet he remained the ever silent partner. Ivan was proud of him for remaining steadfast and brave in all of this. If he could reward him with something better than a kiss then would, but only if he could find . . .

"Ah!" Alfred bucked his hips down onto the fingers. The action had even surprised the American amputee. His eyes were wide open now, staring up at the vast expanse of the night sky above them.

With parted lips he began to tremble again, though it seemed more in anticipation than fright. Those eyes of his looked down, too curious than embarrassed to know what had happened. "I-Ivan?"

The poet's response was to simply rub Alfred just the right way again. The younger mewled, his head falling back onto the blanket while Ivan rubbed the inside of his thighs to keep them evenly spread for him to work on opening the American up.

In that moment Ivan wasn't quite sure what he wanted. He knew that seeing Alfred so beautifully arching and writhing underneath him to his ministrations was all that could satisfy him. Ivan smiled down at the American, often times leaning down and placing a kiss against his thigh or jutting hip bone. Truly Ivan was content with everything right now.

But Ivan also wanted to be selfish. While he was always on his best behavior as politely and gentlemanly as he could be, he wanted to be rough with Alfred; kiss him so hard he turned blue, scrape his nails down his arms and sides to draw blood, squeeze his thighs and muscles. The Russian wanted to bite him, to suckle him until his skin discolored like the painted pallet of an artist's.

Ivan had never been as hard so quickly just at the mere thought of laying with a partner. Alfred really did affect him in such ways that he had yet to comprehend, but he hoped he would quite soon.

With three fingers already inside the American, Alfred seemed quite used to the feel. The veteran continued to press down onto the fingers, unsure if he wanted them deeper, but certain he wanted them rubbing in just the right way that made him moan in pleasure.

Ivan felt it was time. When he removed his fingers he adored hearing the frustrated huff leave Alfred's mouth. But in that moment, when Ivan pressed closer, one wet hand on his cock to guide it easier, the American's eyes widened. So the poet had to calm and assure once more.

"Shh, shh, Alfred. Everything will be alright. I will make you feel better than you've ever felt. You want that, da?" Ivan noticed Alfred's wide eyes glance down toward his throbbing cock, fright of its length and size easily displayed in those blue eyes.

The Russian sighed. While he wanted this, and needed to be inside the younger, he understood Alfred's discouragement.

With a sad disappointed smile Ivan quickly pushed his own selfish needs—no, they were just wants, that was all they were—aside and traced his hand back down to Alfred's cock. He could be happy with just pleasuring the younger. After all, this was their first time exploring each other sexually. It was understandable and very reasonable to not connect their bodies just yet.

But when Ivan went to stroke Alfred into another orgasm he was surprised to find the American had reached in between them and taken a hold of Ivan's arms, pulling him up so that they could press chests together. Ivan was now looking into Alfred's eyes, trying to read just what exactly he wanted. The want to try was clearly seen, but continually Ivan feared it was his own urges corroding his thoughts into thinking this.

All doubt flited away when Ivan felt Alfred press his hands against his hips, pulling him closer to his own. In the moment that Ivan had glanced down he watched Alfred spread his thighs. Now he looked back into those blue eyes for one last confirmation. He could see Alfred was nervous but when the boy leaned his head up and kissed him, Ivan could help himself no longer.

He wrapped his arms around the younger and immediately the tip of his cock found the stretched ring of muscle it had been searching for. Ivan kept his lips on Alfred's mouth when he pressed inside, afraid to hear the other's cries because the Russian poet knew he wouldn't be able to stand the sounds.

"Mmph!" The groans trying to escape Alfred's mouth were growing louder and when Ivan opened his eyes to check for any signs of discomfort he could see the feeling splayed all over the American's features. His eyes were open, tears streaming down, and his lips pulling down into a painful frown. When Ivan pulled his mouth away Alfred turned his head to the side, catching his breath and letting out whimpers that had been trapped in his throat.

Ivan couldn't say anything to comfort him and so he leaned down, pepper kissing the boy's neck, anything to help. His heart hurt when a choked sob burst into the air and when he looked down at Alfred he almost deflated at the sight. The American was crying, teeth grit in pain and his body trembled. Ivan wanted to pull out and to stop, but he also wanted to continue. So he pressed more of himself inside when the younger had quieted down some, immediately watching Alfred seize up again.

Alfred toss his head. His hands pressed against Ivan's chest. The Russian believed Alfred had had enough and made to push him away, but that wasn't the case. The amputee didn't move, and he didn't push against Ivan either, he simply pressed his hands against him, palms flat against the Russian's pectorals.

Alfred's breathing became ragged this time around and Ivan really couldn't wait for him to catch his breath. So he pressed in more. He should have stopped again but he had been so close to sheathing all of himself inside that he jutted his hips forward and finally reached in as far as he could.

Now it wasn't just Alfred trembling, but Ivan was as well. He needed to buck, to pull out and then push back in. The tight warmth nearly made him spend himself, but Ivan refrained. He closed his eyes and counted his breaths, leaning his forehead down into the crook of Alfred's neck, inhaling him and then kissing him.

"Ivan." The soft whimpering gasp had the Russian opening his eyes. He leaned up and looked down at his mate beneath him. Alfred's eyes were open, tear stains already streaking the corner of his cheeks. But when Ivan watched those shaking hands reach up, spread as if to beacon him closer, he could not resist.

Ivan nuzzled into those hands, leaning down again, keeping as still for as long as it took for Alfred to adjust to him. The Russian knew he was big.

When he looked into those blue eyes he watched as the younger slowly blinked away his tears and then moved tanned fingers to rub Ivan's jaw. "Kiss me." Ivan was honestly surprised that Alfred was in a state to make such clear demands, but he heeded them nonetheless.

Leaning forward, Ivan pressed his lips to Alfred's. They simply pressed against mouths before Alfred sucked in a deeper breath, leaving his mouth open for Ivan to molest. The moan reverberating inside Alfred's mouth tingled Ivan's tongue as it twirled around the American's own muscle. The action sent shivers down Ivan's body and his hips bucked a little than previously controlled.

Alfred had pulled his lips away from the Russian and choked out a moan. Ivan smiled at the reaction and did it so again. When Alfred moaned, those blue eyes looking up at him with wide wonderment, Ivan could not help himself and quickly reached down, grasping Alfred's hips and steadying him as he began to move, picking up a faster pace, pressing in deeper with each descent.

Alfred was a virgin so it was a little difficult to move as fast as Ivan wanted, but he was patient; allowed the anal muscles to stretch comfortably before moving so erratically. Every press inside had Alfred sighing out a moan, heightening in volume the more force Ivan applied.

One quick thrust had Alfred sucking in a sharp breath. His face contorted suddenly and his hands flew to Ivan's neck and jaw, looking into his eyes for answers. For a moment the younger looked frightened, and Ivan worried why. He could read the worry in Alfred's features, the sudden emotion rearing its ugly head now made the Russian frown.

And so Ivan leaned forward, caressed Alfred's cheek and gave him an assuring kiss. The boy meant more to Ivan than Alfred thought of himself. He wouldn't be making love to him if he didn't.

"Alfred," Ivan sighed out when he leaned down further, letting his lips traces Alfred's neck and then back up to the underside of his jaw. From his lips alone Ivan could feel Alfred's face heat and warm. So when he pulled back he got to see the most beautiful flush on the American.

The poet's fingers traced the red skin until it ended down near his neck. He couldn't resist kissing him again and was more than satisfied when Alfred returned the kiss to his best ability. Of course Ivan understood the younger's struggle to kiss him while he moved his hips against the Russian's thrusts. He wasn't that experienced with sex, so it would take some time . . . and many more lays to grow accustomed.

Ivan's mind rushed forward in time to more moments like this, with Alfred spreading his thighs and letting him descend into his most intimate depths. A shiver rushed through his body that urged him to pick up his pace.

Beautiful, everything about Alfred was beautiful. Millions of words, verses, and melodies for this moment erupted into Ivan's head. It was from the sight of Alfred, touching Alfred, being inside Alfred. So much emotion filled him that Ivan's sworn he's never experienced before.

"Mm! I-Ivan! Gah!" Alfred gasped, his hands digging into the flesh on the Russian's back while he clung tightly to him.

Finally Alfred began loosening. Ivan was pressing his hands against his thighs, spreading them to fit his hips between better. He was able to move faster to hear more pleasing sounds come out of the veteran's mouth.

It was so very nice how Alfred liked to look into Ivan's eyes during the process. If the Russian wasn't looking he would often feel Alfred's hands on his neck and jaw, pulling his attention, and Ivan was so very glad he looked into Alfred's face. The boy was smiling with those panting lips, his eyes were wider, brighter, a fiery spirit embedded within them.

Was this that wild spirit that Mrs. Thatcher had once referenced?

Ivan was in love with it. He reached out his right hand, the tips of his fingers tracing underneath Alfred's eyes. When his hand was snatched by Alfred's the Russian smiled and watched his young partner press his cheek into the palm of Ivan's pale hand.

Alfred was looking for approval in the way he batted his eyes at Ivan, but the Russian had already accepted him a long time ago. He needed to understand this. He needed to know this. He needed to feel this.

And so Ivan's hands were on him again, caressing, rubbing, tracing. Ivan got Alfred used to his touch, until those muscles never shook out a tremor again. The sheer drunkenness of state may have been partly the cause for Alfred's courage in that moment, but Ivan was still relieved he was calmer in his embrace.

There was a sense of regret when Ivan pressed closer, wrapping his arm around Alfred while his other hand reached down to rub the younger's thighs and keep them squeezing his hips. Ivan would like to imagine Alfred had long legs, toned and tanned just like his thighs. He would like to envision the boy hooking his ankles around his hips and pulling him closer. But nothing was there.

Of course Ivan really shouldn't be thinking of Alfred with the image of legs, because he never knew him when he had the limbs. This was fine, no, perfect. No matter the state, Alfred's body was perfect to Ivan and he was intent on worshipping every severed inch of it.

An open-mouthed moan slipped out of Ivan's mouth for the first time and it was all because Alfred began to roll his hips. The younger never felt the need to use them that much and so Ivan was surprised when he worked his pelvic bones against his own. It made Ivan slip in deeper than before and the sense of the effect shifted Alfred's uncertain attitude. The American was smiling. He was reaching up, gripping Ivan's shoulders and smiling, taking in the facial expressions the Russian made when those hips began moving.

And that was all it took; for Alfred to hold him close, for him to roll his hips, for him to look at Ivan with those bright eyes and show that fiery spirit. Ivan couldn't resist kissing him. He's never wanted to kiss anyone so bad in his life, and while his head leaned down and he pressed his lips against those rosy folds he thrust in deeper than before, remaining there as he came undone and spilt himself inside his partner.

"Mmm!" Alfred's lips parted against Ivan's mouth. Those eyes widening at the strange new feeling. Ivan could tell he wanted to pull away from him and cry out into the air surrounding, but he held him tight, kept both his arms wrapped around him while his hand tangled fingers into golden locks, pushing against his skull to keep their mouths connected.

After the very last spurt Ivan pulled his face away, his breaths falling heavy out of his mouth. Looking down at Alfred in his arms he noticed the younger's state of consciousness. The American looked faint; his eyes dazed, jaw loose, and limbs slack.

Ivan smiled down at him endearingly before one of his hands slid down the American's chest, reaching down between them and gripping Alfred's cock, squeezing it in just the right places. When he felt Alfred buck against him he sighed in watching him orgasm. Those dazed eyes fluttered lids and now Alfred was wide awake again, bright blue eyes—the brightest Ivan had ever seen them thus far—looking up at him. The bright passing shimmers made Ivan glance upward for a bit, the night was still dark and a few once-thought-gone shooting stars fell to signify the perfection of the experience.

Of course those falling stars weren't nearly as beautiful twinkling in their deaths up in the black night sky as they were in the deep blue seas of Alfred's gaze. Ivan had fallen in love, that much he understood that night when he held Alfred in his arms and looked into those wide wild eyes. Such fiery spirits in the American that Ivan had never seen elsewhere and he was utterly and forever struck with inspiration.

Their breaths mingled into one vapor, no words were spoken. When Alfred's hand rose and pressed palm against Ivan's face the Russian leaned into the touch, smiling down at the younger in his arms. They did not move, they just stared into the other and saw just how similar spirits they possessed.

"Ya lyublyu tebya, Alfred." Ivan blinked away the sting in his eyes, his cheeks hurt from smiling so much. He'd never felt as if heaven could come down in this godforsaken world, but it had right then and he was holding it in his arms.

Concern grew in the Russian poet when Alfred's eyes focused and a frown appeared on those kiss-swollen lips. Ivan didn't like the look and his heart pounded in his chest, fearing he may have done something wrong.

"What . . . what does that mean, Ivan?" Alfred looked concerned himself. Ivan could see the subtle strings of self-consciousness arise in the American amputee. Ivan could even feel it when Alfred's fingers squeezed and loosened their grip on his shoulders.

A wave of relief washed over Ivan when he understood the younger's concern in that moment. So the Russian caressed that beautiful face with his knuckles once more and leaned closer, his lips brushing Alfred's just as he said, "It means, 'I love you,' in Russian. Forgive me for not saying it properly." Ivan offered Alfred another kiss and when he pulled back with a gentle smile he was delighted to see that wider grin pulling Alfred's lips upward, the tears in those bright blue eyes now began to slip down his cheeks.

"You mean that?" Alfred asked, his lips suddenly began to tremble. More tears seeped out of the American's eyes. His hands released their hold on Ivan's shoulders now that he was secure in the Russian's strong arms and began to rub the heels of palms into his eyes to stop the wave of salty water leaking out.

The sniffling sobs bubbling out of Alfred weren't at all enjoyable, but Ivan understood them. His arms tightened their hold and now Ivan was cradling the younger against his bosom, pressing Alfred's face into his neck.

"Da . . . yes, I do," Ivan assured.

The moment he had said that the sobs grew louder and Ivan smiled after realizing the heart of the veteran. Alfred was a scarred young man, growing up was hard, serving his country even harder, and living his life with what remained of himself the most challenging. To have someone who loved him for as he is instead of the memory for who he used to be was something that simply overwhelmed the American.

And so the most perfect night in their lives ended with them pressed close and Ivan listening to every last sob Alfred cried out, memorizing pitch and tone until the world silenced around them and the American laid his head against his chest, letting the rhythm of the Russian's heart sooth him into a state of final peace.


	6. Love So Deep

' _My dearest sisters,_

 _I write to you now with the lightest of hearts. It is a wonderment in its own time how I should come to call the emotion of love as my own. I have met someone, and I love him very much._

 _You should see him, sisters, for surely you would never behold anything more beautiful on this planet. His hair is liken to sunshine, his skin like the bronzed statues of Auguste Rodin, and his eyes, oh, my sisters, you should behold his eyes. They are bright, vivid blues liken to the December topazes, but more luscious, possessing a spirit like a fiery flame. Certainly his value is far above any gem or precious metal. I would price him for no less, but know that he cannot be sold for it is I who own his worth._

 _He has promised to become my lover and every moment of the day even unto the evening hours when I slept amongst the playing dreams do I worship him. He is my soul, my heart, my entire being. I have never loved anything more than him. No music, poetry, or the accomplishments of my country could sway me from my affection for him._

 _Your charming brother,_

 _Ivan Braginsky'_

 _'Dearest Vanya,_

 _Forgive me for being the only one to respond to your joyous news, you know how Natalia can get. I am so very happy for you, my brother. I know how much you struggled just to find meaning in anything in this world. It does my heart good to hear you've given your own to one so special and appreciating of your attention. I am so ecstatic that I cannot contain myself right now, the servants have brought in warm tea just so I can control my voice. This means so much to me, brother, that you have finally found the mate to your soul._

 _I had not believed that when I embraced you one last time before the ship carried you away into the arms of another country that you would find someone to care so deeply for. Now I am conflicted, you see. I wish you well and that you remain by his side, but I do terribly miss you and wish to see your face again to know you are eating well._

 _I also would adore to see this love of yours. He sounds handsome and the conjured image of you both in my mind is satisfying. Oh, how I wish to see visible proof of one so poetically beautiful._

 _Your ever loving sister,_

 _Katyusha'_

* * *

"A picture?" Alfred questioned. He had been caught off guard by the request when Ivan had suddenly asked this while the two of them lounged out in the gardens for brunch.

"Da." Ivan nodded with a hopeful smile. "One with you and me. It would please me very much to carry an image of you everywhere I went."

The way Alfred's eyelids fluttered and the flush painted his skin was gorgeous. It was even better when a light smile turned his lips. The American was already head-long past the point in denying anything Ivan wanted. "Well, if . . . if that's what you want."

Ivan placed his teacup down onto the stand they had carried with them and leaned over Alfred's chair, catching his lips with his own. The poet had been so happy with Alfred's approval that he had missed the return in pressure from the American before he pulled away. Despite Alfred doing his best to hide the frown from the lack of kiss length, Ivan's own smile continued to beam the rest of his features brightly.

"We shall look our best then," Ivan coerced. "Would you allow me to order you a suit?"

There was a negative tweak in Alfred's frown that Ivan simply overlooked to keep his hopes. A suit, was it? Sure, Alfred knew it was desired to look one's best for a photograph, but going through with getting an entire suit fitted for him meant . . .

"I will measure you if you are uncomfortable riding into town to see the tailor."

Alfred offered a short smile for Ivan's suggestion. He didn't like the idea of getting fitted at all, but the Russian was presenting an opportunity where Alfred didn't have to bare himself before a tailor for a bodily measurement.

And it seemed Alfred nodding in agreement made the entirety of the Russian's day.

Ivan was still courteous when the day came for him to take out the measuring tape and made to take down the numbers. Alfred sat on his bed and willingly held out his arms, raised his chin for proper length of neck, and sat up straight. Ivan saved measuring Alfred's thighs for last.

Alfred was quiet as Ivan slid the measuring tape over his body. The arms were first and then his neck. Alfred raised his arms for Ivan to wrap the tape around his waist. When the Russian slipped his fingers into the loop for a fitting test Alfred found his face heating. One hand of Ivan's rested against his ribs as the other pulled the tape for accurate measurement. Alfred liked those hands very much, and the memory of their touch still lingered on his skin, ever requiring more ministrations now that he's had a taste of the skill.

So the American purposely began subtly leaning into Ivan's touch. When those large pale hands came down to his waist, Alfred would gently press into those moving hands. But it seemed the poet was focused on the task of measurement than letting his thoughts stray to other provocative actions. So, Alfred tried again when Ivan gently wrapped he tape around his thighs and held his palm still to tighten the tape evenly. Alfred rose his thigh, pressing it more into the palm but Ivan simply retracted his hands altogether, done with taking down the numbers.

Ivan hadn't even noticed the soft flush on Alfred's features when he rolled up the tape and thanked him for his cooperation before biding the younger a farewell. Alfred wasn't certain if he felt upset over his inability to communicate bodily to his love—they were lovers, weren't they?—or just sad over Ivan leaving him so quickly.

Alfred said nothing about his feelings, not even when Ivan came to him the day the suit was ready.

"Here it is, Alfred," Ivan said after laying the wrapped package down onto Alfred's bed after he returned from town one day. "I should think it will fit you just finely."

Alfred took up the package and thanked Ivan for it, though he had noticed how expectant the Russian looked. "What is it?" Alfred questioned the reason for Ivan's continued stay in his room—he usually left quicker.

"Well, I was thinking . . ." Ivan reached up to scratch his cheek almost sheepishly. "It would be better for a test, da?"

"Test?" Alfred raised his brow curiously.

Ivan nodded his head. "Da, before the photograph. You should try on the suit so to make sure it fits you perfectly so you won't be uncomfortable if it doesn't when the plates dry."

Alfred shrugged his shoulders. He supposed he could. So when he took up the package and began unraveling it he glanced toward Ivan who waited patiently. "You don't . . . you don't have to be here for me to try it on," Alfred assured.

Ivan nodded and backed away. "Will you call to me when you have tried it on?" the Russian asked.

Alfred shrugged again. He didn't see any reason against it. "If you would like."

Ivan then smiled that smile that made Alfred's heart melt. "Da, I would," he said before biding Alfred farewell again and leaving his room.

Alfred hadn't put on a suit in a long time. A formal one at least. The last known suit he wore was his military outfit. They were basically the same with a few alterations.

It wasn't hard for the American to put it on. He sighed like usual when it came to the pants. With the legs unfurled the empty fabric stretched to the foot of the bed. Alfred understood that Ivan likely hadn't informed the tailor that he was taking measurements for an amputee.

And so Alfred did was he usually always did. On habit he began rolling up the pant legs and clipped them to hold. He rolled his shoulders and even wiggled his hips. The suit fit nicely.

A knock rapped across Alfred's door, startling him. His heart calmed its heavy beats when the voice of Ivan echoed on the other side.

"Have you tried it on, Alfred? I would like to see it if you may allow me to."

Alfred sighed. He really couldn't deny Ivan anything. So he nodded and then told him to come in. The poet was smiling per usual when he entered and examined the young lad.

"You look every bit a gentleman," Ivan praised, surely noticing the sweet flush painting Alfred's cheeks.

Alfred didn't say much, but when he went to take off his coat Ivan reached out and patted his shoulder. "If you may," the Russian began. "I should like to see you move more in it."

Alfred rose a brow and then rolled his shoulders and twisted a little to show Ivan that he could move perfectly fine, but the older man simply shook his head with a chuckle. "Nyet, Alfred. As I see it the best way to test the durability of a man's suit is to try it in a session of dance."

Dance?

"Come, come."

Alfred suddenly found himself pulled into Ivan's arms and seated in his wheelchair. In a blink Ivan had pushed him into the vacant music room and slid over to the piano. The American looked confused beyond anything else, but when Ivan sat down on the stool and turned to him with a smile, fingers out above the piano keys, Alfred subconsciously smiled in return.

"I have just tuned this," Ivan informed as he laid his fingers down and pressed against the keys, striking up a pleasantly soft melody.

It was late at night and Alfred may have worried about waking any of the servants or tenants hadn't he known the music room to have thicker walls. And the soft tune struck would only be heard like bells in someone's dream should it float to everyone's ears.

When Alfred had leaned back in his chair, intent on enjoying the music, the Russian stopped. He stood up and smiled at Alfred and said, "Now, remember that melody."

Suddenly Ivan pulled something out from the corner, it was a high stool. He sat it in the middle of the room and then walked up to Alfred. He bent, reached his arms out to pick him up, but halted after realizing he hadn't asked any sort of permission to do so.

"May I?" Ivan questioned.

Alfred's cheeks flushed and he nodded, letting Ivan take him in his arms. Of course he hadn't expected said poet to sit him on the high stool nor to strap him on it securely.

A firm hand pressed against Alfred's back, pulling him flush against Ivan's chest. The American started, wobbling on the stool, afraid he'd lean too far which way and teeter over, but Ivan's hand did not relent pressure and the steady rise and fall of that broad chest let Alfred know he had a sturdy anchor with which to cling to.

The room was still quite dark with only a small lantern lit, seated atop the piano, and the silvery rays from the moonlight cascading into the room through the window. Even still Alfred could see Ivan's face perfectly as he looked down at him and smiled that soft smile that made Alfred's cheeks warm.

"Now, remember that melody in your head," Russia said. He paused for a moment, looking into the American's eyes. "Do you have it playing out?"

Alfred's eyes fluttered and he nodded silently, his gaze falling down. He looked back up toward the Russian poet when he felt that pressing hand on his back grip his coat jacket.

"Good." Suddenly Alfred was skidding forward while Ivan slid backwards. Once again the American feared tipping over and crashing to the ground with the stool attached to him, but Ivan held him close, and steadied his motion.

The moment Alfred might have thought about easing his nerves happened to be around the same time Ivan took a turn to the left. Once more Alfred was clinging to Ivan, trying to remain as upright and steady as possible. It took more time for him to realize that Ivan was not going to let him fall.

"Are you listening to the music?" Ivan questioned, trying to keep Alfred's focused eyes off of the stool he was seated on for stability, and back toward him, because the Russian enjoyed looking into those gem-like eyes. "A pleasant melody for a dance like this."

And Alfred did look up at him. Those blue eyes watched as the Russian set his vision on where he was to lead Alfred to next, the small space between the instruments proving an easy path to follow in the slow motion of their waltz. The wheels on the stool did create some bumpy turbulence, but Alfred now understood that he could hold onto Ivan and that the older would not let him fall.

"You seem to move just finely in that suit. Is a good fit," Ivan noted while he looked down at Alfred and watched the way he moved in the suit. There was another moment of silence before the Russian's chuckle bounced off the room's walls. "At least I don't have to worry with you struggling for lead or stepping on my feet."

Alfred was surprised by the comment. He blinked and looked up at Ivan. The statement was quite insensitive, and for a poet he certainly could have used better wording. But before any insecure feeling arose in Alfred's chest he watched Ivan look down at him again, that loving smile always on his lips when the Russian looked at him.

"Da, I am glad for you being with me." When Ivan pressed close, his cheek rubbing against Alfred's temple, the American heard a content sigh pass out of his lips. "There is no more perfect a moment than this."

Alfred flushed at Ivan's heartfelt statement, more so when Ivan had pressed close and slowed down their dance to a simple sway in the dark. The American could feel the poet's heartbeat, its soft pattering calmed him and helped him accept the heat burning his skin. All too soon Alfred laid his head against Ivan's chest and closed his eyes to feel the moment as Ivan had and he hoped the Russian could feel the beat of his own heart which picked up pace for the poet.

Alfred had never felt so at peace in anyone's presence, but right then he had never been more content in his life. In a way he was glad he had lost his legs . . .

He wouldn't have met Ivan if he hadn't.

That night have been perfect and the two returned to their beds with content hearts. It was from this assurance of love that Alfred and Ivan held their smiles through the entire time the photographic plates dried when the photographer came and took their picture in a light room.

"You two look so handsome," Mrs. Thatcher mentioned after the plate had finally dried and she got a chance to see the finish result. "Oh my, you even held those lustrous smiles the entire time." That was a feat to do while waiting for the picture to engrain. But right then it seemed like the most natural thing for the two to do. They were even smiling then while looking at the final image.

"You take very lovely photos, Alfred. My thanks for allowing it." Ivan was proud of the picture and would indeed ask the photographer for copies. He would send one to his sister and keep one for himself.

Alfred only smiled approvingly. However, he didn't voice that he had never sat down in a photo before, and that this was the first instance where he had no other option but to be the seated participant. After a while Alfred feared Ivan might have noticed his moody reminiscence, the Russian usually did, but this time the poet would not draw his attention away from the photographer and his plans to obtain multiple pictures.

It was a good thing to see Ivan so enthusiastic about something. Alfred knew that it was important to him because it was a picture of the two. The image of two lovers were endearing and yet when Alfred received a copy and made to place it on the night table next to his bed he couldn't bring himself to look at it. It was indeed a lovely picture of the both of them, but the lack of Ivan's current presence made Alfred sore about the picture, especially when the poet seemed to busy himself with other things.

There were the daily poetry reading yes, but when Alfred asked to go out into the gardens, Ivan had to head into town for something, when Alfred asked for him to help him go horse riding, Ivan had to fix his room. Alfred understood that he wanted to spend time with the Russian, but now, ever since that nightly dance of theirs Ivan's embrace has been more than far from him.

So, Alfred began to move in the day. Instead of waiting in the lounge room for a read, he would head outside to the gardens. He wondered if Ivan would even notice his absence, and for a moment Alfred hoped he wouldn't because he was upset with the neglect he'd dealt with lately, but in reality Alfred wanted Ivan to come looking for him and to inquire as to why he had suddenly changed routine.

"Alfred?"

The American rooted in his chair. He tried to hide his frown but it was plastered to his face when he heard Ivan approach him. He stopped next to him, Alfred would not turn toward him, instead he focused his gaze down on the ripening vegetables.

"I came to search for you in the lounge room and was surprised to find you vacant of the room that time of day." A chuckle arose in the air and all Alfred wanted to do was grumble. Just what was so funny? "I wanted to apologize."

Finally, Alfred looked at the Russian. Had Ivan known his unease with his distance? Had Ivan understood how neglected Alfred felt? How detached from him since . . . the lake . . . when they . . .

But Ivan smiled, a seemingly oblivious feature now while he pulled something out from behind his back and placed it on Alfred's lap. The younger's blue eyes looked down and noticed a book weighing him down. Crime and Punishment . . . a new novel.

"The man who wrote this is a dear friend of mine, and might I say it is exquisite writing." Ivan seemed ecstatic about the published title. He then took out a copy of his own. "While I have been a little too kept in tasks to sit and write my own, I think it would be nice to read together sometime."

Alfred sighed, his frown returning. It wasn't the reading that perturbed him, however, he allowed it. It seems Ivan really hadn't the time to write his own poetry—which Alfred missed—and so instead sat with Alfred and read his copy of the book while Alfred read his own in silence. Ivan would only speak up or look at Alfred for inquiring the page number or chapter he was on. Their chats were short and their reading time seemingly even shorter.

While Alfred always enjoyed their private time together, this just seemed so mundane and old. He wasn't sure how his thoughts should be about it all. Some days Alfred felt as if Ivan still treated him like some adolescent child by giving him some "toy" to hold him over while the "adult" went off. Alfred didn't like feeling like that and he wasn't certain if Ivan understood he was making him feel like such.

In honesty Alfred realized he was looking for a change. A change after their night out by the lake. At first he had believed he saw it; with he and Ivan sitting even closer, touching each other unabashed without permission to do so, the soft smiles on Ivan's lips seemed to hold a deeper meaning, and Alfred flushed more often when he was with Ivan, especially if they were amongst only themselves.

The feeling was slowly waning and Alfred was afraid that he had done something wrong. As usual.

The snap of pages and a cover coming together alerted Alfred that Ivan had finished his reading session for the night. The Russian used to wait for Alfred to finish the chapter, but now it seemed the time called to him quicker, tonight was no exception.

"It is late," Ivan noted while tucking his book under his arm and standing from the chair he had sat himself in near Alfred's bed. When he looked at Alfred he was none the wiser that Alfred simply stared at the pages, the American simply playing at reading because he couldn't get focused enough to care to read—not with all of the internal conflicts. "Are you finished with the chapter?" He approached him closer, leaning over to look at the Alfred's spot in the book. He chuckled after noticing the place Alfred had been "stuck" at. "Why, Alfred, you'll have to read faster to catch up to where I am. I am already half way through the novel."

With another chuckle Ivan leaned over in habit to grace the American with a kiss goodnight, but Alfred turned his head letting those pale lips press against his cheek instead of mouth. This wasn't the first night this had happened. It was a common gesture between the two of them since their first kiss, a kiss goodnight was both appreciated and wanted, but lately Alfred's been turning his face to avoid any lip-to-lip contact. Ivan hadn't worded any concern over it and if he shown it through his expressions in the disappointment afterwards Alfred wouldn't know, he's come to avert his gaze until Ivan left his room—his upset pushed him to look away.

That night was like any other. Ivan said nothing to the shifted kiss on the cheek. He said nothing even when he moved Alfred's book away and set it down on the night stand near the bed. When he began habitually tucking Alfred into his sheets, it was all the same.

But Alfred's upset forced him to change this growing normalcy.

Quickly, Alfred reached out and took Ivan's hand and placed it against his chest. His night shirt hung loose enough for Ivan's bare hands to brush skin. Alfred wanted to entice him to touch him more intimately again, to look at him like he wanted him, like he couldn't stand the mere thought of turning and leaving the room.

When Ivan smiled and moved his hand away, simply patting Alfred like he was some damn pet the American exploded. The Russian turned to leave, to make it that everything was settled in for the night and that it was time to depart from the other without another word, or without the chance of embrace.

"Ivan." The Russian stopped, his hand on Alfred's doorknob, ready to turn. "Why won't you look at me?" With that question Ivan turned toward Alfred, his face was so very hard to read and Alfred often wondered if one had to be born with observational skills to embrace empathy for another being.

"I am now," Ivan explained, but Alfred didn't want that response.

With a harsh sigh, Alfred sat up straight in his bed, his hands entwined together but often times disconnected only to connect and fall apart again in a nervous motion. "No." Alfred sighed again.

He didn't want to look at Ivan again for his lack of understanding. Alfred wasn't a man who willingly and openly portrayed and explained his feelings. That was why Ivan had been so perfect for him, because he _knew_ when Alfred didn't want him to, but now . . . now . . .

"No, you won't _look_ at me," Alfred said, trying to emphasis words if that's what Ivan needed for everything to come to an understanding in his consciousness. "Do you not see how much I . . . how much I . . ." Alfred wasn't the poetic soul and his range of vocabulary wasn't as vast as Ivan's nor as beautiful and so he struggled with how to explain himself and his internal needs. "How much I yearn for you? How I look at you to turn and look at me, how I reach out for you to reach back toward me." Alfred felt his eyes sting and he furiously rubbed his lids to keep himself held high. "You look right at me but you don't _see_ me. You touch me but you don't _feel_ me." Shaking his head sadly, Alfred offered a pitiful smile. "I thought you knew me so well, but now you distance yourself from me and I wonder if it was something I've done . . . if I've found displeasure in your eyes. I would ask what wrong I've caused but I don't think I would be able to bear your acknowledgment of my known faults." Alfred sniffed. He wasn't an emotional man—or so he told himself over and over. "I would rather you hold me in your arms and whisper your poems in my ear than have to sit in that damn lounge room or here just to have you an arm's reach away and listen to you bout off useless paragraphs that I don't care for. I care for you, Ivan, I want you, Ivan."

Alfred's heart thumped so fast, and his throat constricted, making it hard to swallow and harder to breathe.

"I want to feel you over me again. I want your hands upon me, and your lips pressing where they may." Alfred's face flushed, but he continued explaining his heart's as well as his body's desires. "The experience you gave me before was everything to me and now this body of mine yearns for your touch once more. Now tell me how am I to explain to it that you do not find favor in me anymore?"

Alfred had been watching Ivan move closer through blurry eyes but he had not been comprehending the reasons behind such movement. It wasn't until Ivan reached out and cupped Alfred's face that he blinked away the blur in his vision and focused his gaze on the Russian. Ivan was smiling, like usual, his eyes, his movement, every gesture and expression full of love that Alfred hadn't believed in a moment ago.

"In no way have you fallen out of favor with me," Ivan assured gently, just loud enough in tone to make sure the American heard him. "It was I who feared myself fallen out of your eyes," Ivan explained. Leaning closer he pressed his forehead against Alfred's and listened to the American catch his trembling breaths to compose himself better after the misunderstanding.

"Forgive me," Ivan again spoke. "But I felt it was only proper to wait for permission to hold you so intimately again. I regret that I ever made you believe I did not want you so passionately."

Alfred chuckled at it all. So Ivan had wanted the same but refrained because he had not given consent about it. They've always danced around each other like such fools. Ivan Braginsky, always the gentleman even when it wasn't necessary. Such refrain in him.

"Then make love to me, Ivan," Alfred requested. His hands reached up to grip Ivan's jacket sleeves. He was trembling, just like their first night together, but Alfred wanted this, he wanted to feel their shared bond once more after fearing it had vanished into nonexistence.

Ivan took in a breath, almost as if he were inhaling Alfred's own scent. While it might have been another misunderstood action, Alfred still found himself shivering and parting his lips, leaning close to Ivan's mouth.

"Not tonight," Ivan declined, raising his hand and pressing his fingers against Alfred's seeking lips. The American may have felt a sense of disappointment and worry arise again hadn't Ivan so given explanation for his refusal. "It is Sunday and I must write my sisters as I do so every week." There was a more assured smile on Ivan's lips before he said, "Tomorrow. Wait up for me and I will come to you."

Alfred's cheeks flared a bright red at the promise of entwined bodies and shared breath. He contained the shiver of excitement that his body was aroused upon. When Ivan kissed him it was slow, drawn out to define the promise before he pulled away and bid him a goodnight.

Alfred hardly slept. He fell into slumber late and awoke too early to a morning that could not end quick enough only to go about a day that he hated the length of.

Ivan had run into town that day with Mrs. Thatcher and Alfred hadn't been up to making the journey and so he stayed. After the party returned the Russian whisked himself back to his room and wasn't seen much of save for the meals.

Not a word was shared between Alfred and Ivan that the American began growing concerned. But he held the poet higher than that. He was a gentleman and was always very good on his word. So that night while Alfred lay in bed . . . waiting . . . he hoped.

Alfred's eyes held that of his doorframe and watched the brass knob for any movement. He watched intently so often that his eyes strained and he was forced to take off his glasses and put them away. When he set his spectacles down he noticed the book he and Russia had been trying to read together still set near the candle stand.

He hadn't much else to do and so Alfred took it up and began to read where he had left off. Ivan had been right, it was a good book. But even good books couldn't fend off weariness.

Alfred had fallen asleep in the late hour and would not have been roused if not for the feather-light touch of ghostly hands gliding over his body, wary finger tips pressing against buttons, popping them off one by one in slow time before pausing in touch before slinking underneath his nightshirt to feel skin only to retreat and attempt a latter time. The dip in the mattress was felt, especially when the American's body almost rolled into the new presence in the room.

Opening his eyes he looked up into the dark room. There was a dark figure leant over him, one knee dipping the mattress down and two hands traveling over his shoulders, chest and waist. Alfred's eyesight varied without his glasses. There were two things he could see clearly without them, the stars in the sky, and Ivan Braginsky.

With a blink, the tiredness washed away and there above him was Ivan. Of course the moment the Russian noticed Alfred's consciousness returned the American watched as those violet eyes glanced away shamefully and his hands left, returning back to Ivan's side.

"Forgive me," Ivan apologized bashfully. "That was very rude of me to touch you without conscious consent."

Alfred found himself smiling. Even in the darkness of the room he could see the painted colors on Ivan's pale cheeks out of his embarrassment and lack of restraint. The poet was ever the gentleman.

But it was nice knowing that Ivan wanted Alfred as much as he wanted him. To be wanted and desired wasn't something Alfred's known, but now that he was he adored it and pleaded that affection stay on him for eternity.

Reaching forward, Alfred cupped the back of Ivan's neck, pulling him back down over him. The Russian almost lost his balance hadn't he placed both of his hands on the mattress beside Alfred's shoulders, his larger body caging Alfred like he wanted him to. When Ivan steadied himself and would lean down no more without risk of toppling over, Alfred leaned up, brushing his lips against the Russian's.

"Touch me whenever you want, as long as I may do the same," Alfred said and then placed a light kiss on Ivan's lips. He had wished Ivan to return the kiss and shift into a more passionate experience, but a smile pulled the Russian's lips taught, not quite ideal for a kiss. So Alfred leaned back, pressing his back into the mattress and looking up at Ivan's smiling face and those glowing eyes of his.

"Da," Ivan agreed with a very pleased smile. "Agreed."

With that Ivan bent his elbows, securing his lean on them while pressing his chest into Alfred's and leaning his head down to press his lips to Alfred's. It was a soft kiss, gentle and tender. The lateness of the hour had in no way tired their passion for one another.

Despite Alfred's desire to make love again he shook, trembled as much as he did the first time. Ivan seemed to notice this more prominently when he pulled Alfred's night shirt over his head. Immediately Alfred's limbs locked and his arms quite tried to cover his bare chest, but with Ivan's gently caressing hands he eased Alfred's arms away and pressed them into the mattress while the poet's pale lips descended on that warm chest.

Alfred sighed, his eyes fluttering closed when Ivan's lips worshiped his body like that. Every kiss pressed and America would arch into that mouth. His body still shook but that didn't give him reason not to open himself and to let Ivan do as he pleased.

The American's hands caressed the Russian's neck, his fingers playing with sandy locks before rising and massaging his scalp. He liked the way Ivan held him, his hands were gentle when pulling on his arms or pressing down on his sternum, but they held a purpose to them and would hold onto Alfred and keep him still to try to calm his trembles.

They have made love before, but Alfred could not stop shaking. He wanted to believe he was merely excited again, but he doubted that was the entirety of the reason behind his tremors. Alfred later became concerned on what Ivan would think, perhaps seeing him as the same insecure young man he had bedded, but this was not the case.

The poet simply took his lips away from his abdomen and leaned up, cupping Alfred's face and looking into his eyes. Alfred was quick to offer a smile, but even the folds of his lips trembled. Ivan only smiled down at him, as if he understood everything, and all it took to get Alfred to still himself was one kiss.

Ivan pressed his weight down upon Alfred in the kiss, laying on top of him and just caressing his arms, encouraging them to hold him. Alfred did as instructed and wrapped his arms around his lover, kissing him back with as much passion as Ivan was displaying. He moaned into the kiss, sighing his breath into Ivan's mouth who only inhaled every sound.

There was an annoyance when Alfred's fingertips scrapped over harsh jacket fabric, but he didn't have to deal with the obstacle long. Ivan began shrugging his shoulders, huffing off the jacket and letting it slide to the floor when he began unbuttoning his vest and then shirt. Alfred didn't reach out to him at first when Ivan bore his torso, but when the Russian pressed down upon him again, bare chest to bare chest Alfred's hands came up on their own accord to feel the older's muscles and the thumping of his heart inside his chest.

Lips remained locked, Ivan settling to keep Alfred focused on their shared kisses while he slowly undressed himself and the American. Alfred moaned, pulling his lips away and turning his head to the side when Ivan ground into him. His eyes clenched shut at the feel of Ivan's hard manhood pressed against his own, just as hard. To think that mere moments ago Alfred believed that Ivan didn't want him.

Before nearly turned blue in the face before Ivan pulled his lips away and they rested their foreheads together, breathing in each other's exhales while they worked on catching their breaths. Ivan's hands constantly rubbed up and down Alfred's sides in adoration. The motions eased Alfred but he particularly enjoyed rolling his hips into Ivan's, sighing as he sighed, and moaning in time with him.

When the Russian pulled back to sit on his knees, his hands sliding down onto Alfred's hips, he did not stop thrusting against him. He hummed in pleasure while his eyes darkened a shade in hue, almost glowing surreally while peering down at Alfred so deeply passionately.

"I have something," the poet said while reaching into the pocket of his jacket he had tossed to the side of the bed. It was a small vile of oil and Alfred couldn't think of what he needed it for until Ivan explained, saying, "I know before was a little difficult for you, as it was for me, but this will make it easier."

Alfred then watched Ivan pour it onto his fingers and immediately understood what it was for. He flushed at the thought of what it was made of or if it was even intended for this sort of thing, but he soon came to realize the truth in Ivan's words and how much easier it was to slick him up before penetration. Alfred gasped when two fingers immediately sunk into him with ease. He had once had trouble with so many digits, but the fine oil lessoned the stress on his body and inner muscles.

When Ivan would lean down and kiss his thighs, rubbing his lips up and down them before traveling up and blowing lightly onto Alfred's aching arousal he couldn't care for the fingers slipping inside him. He trusted Ivan and knew he would take care of him like he had before. But of course this didn't lesson his flush any more, especially when the Russian leaned down and pushed his lips down onto the head of his penis.

Alfred jumped, his eyes popping open wide while gazing down at the Russian. He'd never . . . not even heard . . .

"Oh!" Alfred's eyes fluttered though he wanted to keep watch. The sounds coming out of his mouth and the way Ivan hummed around him was breathtaking. This was then he knew that every time he and Ivan made love it wouldn't be the same, but an entirely new experience.

The American's hands fisted into his sheets the more Ivan descended upon him. He watched it all, the sight hardening him more and he could visibly see the way the veins on his manhood pulsed and stretched the organ erect. But Ivan simply opened his mouth and took it in its growing shape.

"I-Ivan," Alfred gasped.

At the sound of his name the Russian looked up at him. Alfred hummed out a moan because the poet hadn't stopped suckling him, but those eyes upon him held him with some sort of spell, sending tingles throughout his body that enticed his hips to buck. The moment they did Ivan reached up and pressed them down into the mattress to keep them still. Alfred's face shifted bright red and he felt he had done something wrong, but Ivan only pulled away from his cock and kissed his thighs.

When the Russian leaned over him again Alfred kissed him without hesitation. The American's hands went up and cupped Ivan's neck and jaw, holding him close while their tongues danced around the other muscle. Alfred's mouth shuddered, opening and letting a long drawn moan escape. The way Ivan's fingers moved inside him was more than pleasurable, and instead of an in and out motion they now were rubbing something inside him that made him weak in the knees, his arms shaking while he let go of Ivan and slipped back onto the mattress beneath him.

In no way was Ivan done with Alfred's mouth. He followed him when he fell back into the mattress, leaning down and kissing his breath away while he rubbed those expert fingers inside the American. Alfred had been teased to the point he felt himself ready to explode and when it seemed Ivan would not stop he pushed his hands against his shoulders and whimpered.

"Please," Alfred begged. His face bright red and eyes closed from having to ask this. "Ivan please . . ." He could feel the Russian pause in his ministrations. He knew he was looking at him, waiting for his command, but Alfred was just . . . Finally, when he managed to open his eyes and look at Ivan he saw him staring down at him, a soft expectant smile on his lips while a light pant heaved his chest back and forth. "Don't make me finish just yet," Alfred pleaded. His eyes fluttered with his growing flush. "I want . . . I want . . ." His face was hot, his mouth was dry, his penis uncomfortably hard, and his asshole clenching. Alfred F. Jones was the epitome of sexual frustration. "I want you inside of me . . ."

There, Alfred said it. His body trembled like that of a virgin's once more when his insecurities crept upon him. The embarrassment of letting something like that come out of his mouth, and as a demand no less, it weighed on Alfred and he almost reverted back into himself.

But Ivan always seemed to know what to do. While Alfred trembled he knew he only needed to kiss him to calm him, and he did. From the American's previous request Ivan obliged in removing his fingers and then coating himself with the slick oil.

Alfred had even watched him. Watched as Ivan's large hand reached down and stroked himself to lather completely. Shamelessly Alfred's thoughts were filled with the organ, delighted in the knowledge that it would soon be filling him, letting him experience such pleasures as the night by the lake.

When Ivan leaned over him again, Alfred reached up and wrapped his arm around his ribs, fingers digging into his shoulder blades the moment he felt Ivan press against his entrance. The second time they joined was indefinitely easier than the previous. Alfred still winced from being stretched so wide, but in one fluid motion Ivan was settled inside him, letting him grow accustomed to the full feeling of him quicker.

The kisses being placed on his face loosened Alfred's jaw, lips parting in hopes the Russian would abandon placing pecks on his cheeks and eyes to return to his lips. Alfred's jaw, ears and neck were kissed first before the poet's pale lips returned to his mouth, and when they did the older began to move. Alfred moaned even at the slow pace, he felt a slight embarrassment for his sudden rash volume but he had been craving this—craving when he and Ivan would become of one body again.

And Ivan seemed to enjoy his voice. His mouth was constantly on his neck, kissing, sucking, and nibbling while Alfred's vocals reverberated inside his throat with heightening moans the quicker Ivan paced himself. Alfred's hands slid down from Ivan's back toward the man's moving hips, enjoying the feel of the way they shifted every time the Russian would buck and thrust into him. More so Alfred enjoyed the feel of Ivan's hands on his own thighs, rubbing him soothingly, getting the younger to use the muscles he neglects to squeeze against his pale hips.

Alfred shuddered when he felt Ivan's thumbs dip lower in their caress, running over the bumpy patches of Alfred's sown skin over the amputated limbs. Alfred, himself, touched those places rarely because of his regret over losing his legs, but when Ivan touched him he was very gentle and even considerate in his caresses. Alfred didn't mind and in fact enjoyed his ministrations.

"I-Ivan," Alfred whispered, sighs leaving his lips while his head turned and chest arched into the Russian while the older man kissed past his collarbone and then began placing discolored patches across the expanse of his torso.

Alfred's hands moved to the small of Ivan's back, grunting and moaning each time it moved and dipped forward, signifying how the Russian slipped deeper into his body, rubbing him in all the right ways. It was odd that Alfred could feel so much pleasurable sensations to something inside him when he, himself, was clearly created to enter, but to be penetrated felt strangely natural and he wouldn't deny his desires to continue to have Ivan slide inside him . . . if it was only Ivan.

The American really wanted to kiss the Russian right then, but the poet was entrenched in a task of suckling his nipples. Alfred would usually wait until the older saw it fit to return to his lips, but tonight his impatience took hold of him and he boldly grasped Ivan's face, pulling him off of his pectoral and then pulling that saliva-slicked mouth onto his own. Ivan had not protested, but by the way his hips began rolling faster and harder into him, he enjoyed the demanding motions. It was then Alfred understood that the older simply wanted him to make decisions for himself and take the lead in times when he wanted to, so Alfred smiled into the kiss and did just that.

The sound of the wet squelches from the thrusts made Alfred shudder in the kiss. Even their smacking lips sucking folds didn't deter Alfred from listening to the scandalous sounds of Ivan's manhood sliding in and out of him. The American moaned, rolling his own hips in time with Ivan's while the sound of their skin meeting each other deafened the both of them.

"Mmm," Alfred hummed out his moan when he felt Ivan's cock swell inside him, his movement inside him slowly just a bit until Alfred's anal walls expanded to the new growth in accommodation. But when Ivan reached in between them and let his hand palm Alfred's erection the American sucked in a sharp breath, the shaft inside him suddenly felt tighter due to his walls clenching from the pleasure of his cock, and therefore Ivan once again felt larger.

When Ivan groaned in his ear he leaned down and sunk his teeth into the American's lobe, pulling and sucking it into his mouth. Alfred's moans came out in stuttering breaths, pitches ranging from high to low and guttural. But the moan slipping past Alfred's lips when he came was swallowed by Ivan's mouth when those pale folds descended onto his in that moment.

Alfred moaned long and in time with his orgasm as it washed over him, encouraged in length by Ivan's stroking hand. Even after he had spilt his essence onto himself and Ivan above him, the Russian continued to rub the head of the phallus, sending sensitive currents throughout his post-orgasmic body that helped him continue clenching around the Russian's cock so that he too could follow his lead.

Alfred sucked in another breath when he felt Ivan swell until he burst. The essence filling him still made him shudder, but his heart melted always when Ivan would lean down and kiss his breath away after just catching it a moment before. They embraced each other for a long while, remaining connected for as long as possible.

Alfred wasn't entirely certain if he enjoyed Ivan remaining inside him or pulling out. He couldn't pinpoint his upset, or if he was so, when Ivan did just that and laid beside him. But he knew he enjoyed laying in the Russian's arms, having those strong limbs wrapped around him, pulling him back into a broad pale chest. Ivan's cool breath on his neck was pleasant as well, but not as pleasant as the feel of that heart of the poet's thumping against his ribcage for Alfred to feel.

They were both wide awake despite the late hour. Their hands seemed to have a mind of their own with the way they still moved over the other's body. Ivan would constantly lean down and press kisses to the back of Alfred's neck while his hands rubbed up and down the American's torso and abdomen. Alfred would simply cling to those arms wrapped around them, massaging the muscle and gliding over pale skin.

Just to be in the others presence was a comfort and Alfred quickly shooed away every self-conscious feeling of being neglected. With the way Ivan clung to him and kissed him he was both wanted and desired. It was so very . . . nice . . . to have someone who wanted him, being as broken as he was . . . or . . . used to be.

"What picture is this?" Alfred was pulled from his warm thoughts to see Ivan had reached over him and taken up a picture on his nightstand. It was one tilted downward and Alfred immediately knew which one it was. But it was too late to deter the Russian from looking at it, even in the dark room the moonlight was enough to illuminate the old picture.

Ivan smiled as he traced his fingers over the glass case of the photograph. "This is you, da?"

Alfred didn't look at the picture. He only laid his head on Ivan's arm and continued to try to escape to his own thoughts. He nodded in confirmation however.

Ivan seemed very enthralled with the old photograph, the one taken of him in Union uniform when he was only sixteen years old. It was a handsome picture, one capturing his youth and resilience, and his once tall posture when he had long legs to call his own.

"Your eyes shine brightly in this one," Ivan noted. His smile held while Alfred tried not to frown at the remembrance of it. "You never change."

Alfred turned in Ivan's arms. Looking at him in confusion. Of course he's changed; his legs were gone and the light in his eyes snuffed out.

The Russian seemed to notice his internal conflict and only reached down to pinch his chin, moving it to the right and then to the left as if to examine him. His smile broadened and he nodded as if in agreement with his previous statement to which Alfred was in disagreement with.

"Da, the light has returned. It has taken a while, but it has returned," Ivan stated and pressed closer until their foreheads touched. "Keep that fire, Alfred. Because it is what I have fallen in love with."

Ivan set the picture down and wrapped his arms around Alfred again, pulling him close and kissing him passionately again. The two shared this tender moment of reassurance full of kisses and caresses, both hoping the night would remain forever. But even as the sun arose neither decided to take their eyes off of each other for the need of sleep. Their souls were rejuvenated and the spirits light.

However, it was indeed something Ivan had to say that put Alfred right back where he had started.

"It's almost been a year since I came here," Ivan made mention while he and Alfred took delight in watching the sun light up the American's window.

Alfred hummed in acknowledgement, settling himself easier against his lover while his heart swooned with content.

"I shall have to be leaving soon back to Mother Russia."

That statement right there froze Alfred. His eyes widened and his heart stopped. He quickly turned around in the poet's arms again. He wanted to say something but didn't know what he possibly could. Instead the hurt seeping from a heart suddenly wounded again began expelling out through his sad eyes.

"You're . . . leaving?" Alfred couldn't bear the thought of the Russian poet no longer gracing the home as a tenant. That meant no more daily reads, no more pleasant chats in the garden, no more picnics by the lake, no more rides into town, no more kisses when no one was looking . . . no more . . . nothing.

"Da," Ivan said with a nod while sitting himself up in bed. It was morning and it was time to go about one's business. He stretched, looked quite relaxed even for someone who just revealed to their lover that it was time for them to depart. "I have lingered a year in the States as I had intended to. I shan't keep my sisters waiting for my return any longer."

Alfred's hands began fisting the sheets, pulling them closer to his nude body the more he realized that Ivan was serious and that he was going to be leaving the United States of America very soon. His mind was in turmoil and his heart in even worse condition. He didn't know what to think and hardly what words to say or ask to settle his disrupted spirit.

"When . . . will you . . . be leaving?" Alfred really didn't want to know the date because he didn't want to accept the inevitable.

"I'm going into the city today to make arrangements for the transportation," Ivan said while he began dressing himself. "I'll likely be gone the entire day," he added while buttoning up his shirt and then slipping his jacket on. "Forgive me for having to skip our reading, but you understand, da?"

The Russian then expected to lean down and grace a kiss, but Alfred would not have it. He turned his head and let those pale lips kiss his cheek like numerous times before. Alfred had been so upset that his previous attitude before was nothing compared to the wretchedness he felt right now.

"Then why . . . ?" Alfred's voice was shaking, his fists clenching the sheets as he covered himself, ashamed that he had been so stupid and full of emotion. "Why did you do all of this?" Even when Alfred had to look away he could sense Ivan's confusion. So, in an instant he turned his upset gaze toward him and bit out his hurt. "Why did you waste your time with me? Why did you draw close to me? Why did you make me feel wanted again? Why did you make me _feel_ . . ." Alfred rose his hand to his heart, it beat heavily in his chest, such a wounded organ should deserve so many medals of honor after so many blows.

He felt exhausted. Alfred felt drained so he just collapsed onto his sheets and pressed his face into the linens. He didn't want to cry, but it was happening, and he certainly didn't want Ivan to see. "Go away!" he cried. "Just go back to Russia!" Damn him. Damn that poet!

"Alfred." The sound of his name spoken so gently used to make the American swoon, now he despised such a tone, especially when it came from Ivan Braginsky.

"No!" Alfred turned to the Russian again, his eyes red and tears streaking down his face. "You . . . you used me for your own selfish needs!" Inspiration, pleasure. "And now you have the heart to tell me you are leaving!"

Ivan frowned at Alfred's tone. The older man looked on edge now. He even looked slightly confused as if he were looking for the words he had spoken and trying to figure out their meanings and if they indeed had offended the American veteran.

Alfred only shook his head, hiccupping his pathetic sobs. "You used me!" he cried, horribly heartbroken. "You're nothing but a damn bastard and I want to see you leave! Leave!"

A cautious hand was then felt on his shoulder. He knew Ivan could be assertive, but mostly he was attentive. So Alfred shook him off of him. If the Russian wanted him more outspoken then he would gladly show him how verbal he could be.

"Leave!" Alfred once again demanded. If he had better footing to stand on he would have risen to his feet and socked that man right in his nose. He would have!

"Dorogoy, you have simply misunderstanded me," Ivan explained, his hands returning to Alfred's shoulders gently.

Alfred shook the hands off again and then turned to Ivan, his eyes hard and accusing. "What's there to misunderstand? You told me you're leaving. You don't even plan to come back, do you?!"

"N-Nyet, I did not," Ivan said truthfully. He really looked like he was trying to excuse himself to the American, but Alfred would have none of that.

With a moaning whine Alfred fell back onto his bed and tried to ignore everything, especially the presence of the Russian poet. Even when the man went on explaining himself the American found no ease of mind.

"But I will visit," Ivan assured. His hands then pulled Alfred's shoulders backwards, pushing him onto his back so that he may look at him. "Because I have a reason to." The Russian accented every word, making sure they rung into the American's head. They had, but not in the positive way he had hoped for.

Alfred's frown worsened. "Why can't you stay here, with me? Is it because I'm just not worth it?"

"Never," Ivan pressed. He was now sitting down on the side of the bed, leaning over the American with hands upon him, trying to comfort his downed spirit. "I don't care if my purse empties from every trip I take here. I want to continue seeing you." The frown wasn't seen, but it was felt, even the sadness seeping out of the upset poet. Alfred wondered if he was starting to feel the emotions lingering in the air. "If . . . you would allow me to, Alfred."

"Why can't you just stay?" Alfred whined.

"I have a home and family in my country," Ivan reminded. "It would be hard to just refuse to return."

"I won't," Alfred cried, tears still heavy in his eyes. "I won't be able to stand it if you leave me."

"Nyet, you are strong, Alfred," Ivan assured when he leaned his head down and pressed his forehead to the American's. "Don't lose that attractive spirit of yours on my account."

Alfred sniffed and then shook the Russian away. Once more he took hold of the sheets and pulled them over himself. He said no more, and when Ivan tried to reach out and touch him he would shake him off.

It had been hard to leave him like that, but Ivan let him to his peace of room. He hadn't expected to see Mrs. Thatcher waiting just outside however. She looked upset, almost the exact replica of Alfred's torn emotions.

"I could not find you in your room for breakfast announcement," she said. Her eyes then darted toward Alfred's room where muffled sobs could still be heard by the most keen of ears. "I was on my way to inform Alfred but now I'm afraid he might not wish to join us."

"Apologies," Ivan replied. "But I fear I too must pass the meal."

Ivan had tried to go around the woman but she quickly placed herself in his way once more. When the Russian was about to kindly insist the widow evade from him she looked at him and quite sternly said—

"I had not said anything because he was happy." The woman's eyes would every now and then glance behind the Russian toward the room he was departing from. "But mark my words, Mr. Braginsky." When her eyes met the poet's the man understood her reasoning for being so protective of the American. "If you are the one to damage him this time then you'll be damned, not him. I will not take kindly to you using him as a means to entertain yourself. It may be fashionable to toy with another being's emotions in Europe, but not here in America, no siree." And just like that her dark aura vanished and she flattened her dress of invisible wrinkles. "Now, if you excuse me I have tenants to inform of breakfast."

She passed by the Russian, walking down the lower hall and knocking on doors. Ivan stayed where he was, shaken by her words and more than confused. He would have liked to turn back and try to comfort Alfred again, but he needed to head out and make it to the city to book a passage. It wasn't easy to do so with a heavy heart, but he did it out of habit, trying to put the hopes of seeing his family again to help his day along. Though . . . Alfred's heartbreak and Mrs. Thatcher's words haunted the Russian even when he finally finished his tasks.

He thought it might have been an obvious sign. He was Russian and only visiting. Had he really become such a regular that everyone believed he to be settling down in the country?

Needless to say Ivan was having the worst weeks of his life before his departure. Alfred would no longer come out of his room and his food had to be catered and soothingly convinced to eat by Mrs. Thatcher—Ivan wasn't sure on what to think about the old woman, God knew what she was filling Alfred's head with. But even if Ivan wished to be beside his lover during these last days in the United States he couldn't push himself to force his presence on the downhearted American.

It wasn't until the young soldier's parents arrived that Ivan had wished he had told Alfred of his pending journey back to his native country later.


End file.
